Vol 3: Waiting for Grace
by spondoolix
Summary: Part 4 : Ch44 - Dealing with the Devil is never easy. Being the third installment of the Belinda Weaver saga, and a commemorative/collaborative work. Set mid way though S5 of BH UK and continuing past the end with help from some friends. Contains some bad language and occasional, mild naughtiness.
1. Preamble

_The following fic is a little different to the first two and is written in collaboration with 3 fantastic members of this community: Saemay, KatyNewt and ShoePigeon. It is set in part during the events of Season 5 and will continue beyond it's 'conclusion'._

_If that intrigues you, please continue forth dear reader!_

_Spon_

_And with that. We give you..._

* * *

**Waiting for Grace**

_"We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us" E M Forster_


	2. The Red Case

**Part 1: "There are things known and there are things unknown, and in between are the doors of perception"**

* * *

**Chapter 1: The Red Case**

Honolulu Heights rattles and clunks like a dying machine. These days, when they are alone, Alex feels horribly symbiotic with the place. It is as if it reacts to her, and she to it. In the moments after the men from the other side leave, the men with sticks and rope, the whole place seems to shudder and creak. When Alex lands on her backside on the cold attic steps, the house too seems to slump. It relaxes into the earth like a lump of brick, traumatised by the shifting of the earth beneath it. When Alex stops holding her conjured breath, the house expands a little, contracts; and the pipes moan and sigh.

She has tried to get out and about, to not get 'house bound' like Annie had warned her against it:_ "Don't be a shut in"_ the old ghost had said,_ "it's tempting, soooo tempting, but you just end up lonely, and with a lot of mugs to wash. Trust me!"_ Alex has an overwhelming urge to disappear to see the boys, to tell them everything in a terrorised splurge, but she can't seem to move. She is not sure whether it is fear, exhaustion, relief or just the simple fact that the house needs to hold on to her as much as she needs to hold on to it. Just for a moment she needs it as much as it needs her. She needs to tie herself to something secure, solid, human.

Hal and Tom, whatever they are, are not that.

She wanders up the stairs into the old nursery and lingers in the doorway. She wonders if it still smells of baby when she disturbs it. She never thought she would miss smells as much as she does. The toys, which Oliver had been playing with, are still laid out across the floor. Alex lumps towards them and drops onto the rug in silence. She rolls the old moth-eaten dog on its wheels. It squeaks with rust. She stares at it, as if somehow, given the life she now leads, the thing will bark back at her. She wouldn't be surprised, nothing could surprise her any more. When the toy does not come to life she decides to tidy the things away, resorting to the comforting familiarity of tidying up after boys. She is on auto-pilot. Besides, it seems morbid to leave the playthings lying about, especially now that the kid has moved on. She scoops them up in her arms and pulls out one of the old cases to shove them away. She closes the case again. It's full, and anyway, the toys don't go there. They belong somewhere else. She grasps for an old box...no, not there either.

Despite further searching, none of the boxes, crates, cases or tea-chests appeal. The minute Alex opens one, she disregards it. Eventually she is not looking for somewhere to stash the toys, she is just looking. It takes her mind off the horror of what just happened. She ploughs into the contents of the attic as if there is something she has lost and cannot leave the house without: car keys, that one shoe, the ticket to that show she is going to with her friends, the phone number of that guy she really hopes is out at the club that evening, that picture of her and her mum and dad from before everything went shite... For a minute she's not a dead girl anymore, she's just someone searching for something misplaced which she will never find.

Of course, none of what she discovers satisfies that nagging feeling, until, there, at the back of the room, she sees an old case. It is ruby red, worn at the corners. It has rusted clasps of metal, faded brown stitching, but it seems to gleam. With a great effort she digs through the detritus, making a mess that she knows will wind Hal up something rotten.

She drops the toys, they are no longer important, lays her hand on the handle of the case and yanks.

It's stuck!

She puts both hands on the case, grits her teeth, plants her feet and pulls with all her might. Something tingles in her arms, like the electric spark caused when nylon underwear meets car door. She shakes it off and continues with vigour until, finally, with an almighty wrench, the case pops free, sending Alex back a few feet. She, and the case, land pell-mell on the rug.

"Ha-ha!" exclaims Alex to No-one in particular. Her elation suddenly turns to sadness. She feels horribly alone and doesn't know why. She clings to the case tightly, as if it is an old, forgotten friend requiring an embrace. The case does not hug back, so Alex just lies there, staring at the ceiling. She can't cry but she feels the need to. The sudden feeling of loss that washes over her is odd, magnified by the thing she holds in her arms. She can't explain why the memory of Belinda Weaver comes flooding back, but it does, and the loss of that strange creature seems painfully raw.

They haven't spoken about it, Belinda, none of them. It seems inappropriate. Once or twice, when something had reminded Alex and Tom of that strange woman, they looked to Hal to find him only confused, with a painful expression that they knew well: Hal's wry-eyebrowed 'I don't get the joke' face. It just makes the loss worse. Neither Alex nor Tom know what she had done to him, but it was as if everything that had happened when she was around, the whole existence of her, had gone, at least as far as Hal was concerned. There was something cruel about the fact that Hal could forget her and they couldn't. If only Alex had been able to hate her still, but no, typical Belinda, she had to make Alex like her before she went and dusted herself.

Sometimes Alex still wonders if Belinda really _had_ done it. They hadn't seen it, had they? Maybe the whole shoes, ash and stake thing was a horrible trick? Yes, that was it. Hal was in on it, he had to be. It was a cruel joke the vampires were playing on Alex and Tom; payback for the trick Tom and Alex had pulled on Hal all those months ago. That reminds her, it's her job to empty the Hoover bag, according to the rota.

There's a knock at the door. Alex sits up suddenly. She still holds to the case.

There it is again. A knock at the door. Definitely a knock!

Strange.

It's polite, controlled: the knock of an eager visitor.

Alex stands, blinks and is gone. She doesn't note that the attic looks decidedly different when she vanishes: it is neater, cleaner, lived in, distinctly unlike a room recently populated by at least three unhinged vampires, a godhead, two ghosts and the odd werewolf.

She does not notice either that the corridor in which she arrives is fresh, newly painted, loved and bright. It swims with sunshine which streams through the glass in the door, illuminating two shapes. One is tall and pert, the other is small and pigtailed, pressed up against the glass. A young girl smiles as she peers inside.

"Coming!" a welsh voice calls from the kitchen behind her. Alex turns in horror. There's someone in the house. Another ghost? This place is infested!

Someone bounces out of the kitchen. It's a woman, young, perfectly turned out and up to her elbows in suds and pink marigolds. She is wearing a large dress, that too is pink, sixty percent petticoat...maybe sixty-five. Her dark hair is swept up stiffly in an alice-band. "Christ! Retro-much?" Alex snorts. No-one laughs.

The woman doesn't acknowledge Alex at all as she blusters towards the door. "Just a moment," she says, checking her hair and face in a mirror that Alex is sure wasn't there before.

As the woman pushes past, Alex hugs to the old case as if it is a shield.

Whoever this ghost is, she opens the door to the visitors as if she owns the place. The handle meets her hand warmly, letting in a flood of sunlight which causes Alex to blink, blinded.

Slowly, through the momentary blur, Alex begins to see the guests. The shapes draw slowly into focus. The taller, a woman, has expertly crafted caramel coloured hair, it curls with vintage pin-up precision. She wears a pair of horn-rimmed black sunglasses, studded at the corners with little red jewels which wink at Alex. The woman's lips are blood red, with a smile so sharp you could cut yourself on it. Below her long neck she wears a knee length, black pencil-dress, tightly tailored, with red piping that follows the contours of her body like a snake, down the right side of her body and down to a little cut 'v' above her knee. Below her long legs are parked two red shoes, like exclamation points. Alex looks up, having taken in all that the visitor is and blinked away the realisation that only one person she knows can pull off footwear like that.

"Ooooooh the-fuck-no...?!"

"Good Afternoon Mrs..." begins Belinda Weaver.

"...Williams."

"Mrs Williams, a pleasure, a real pleasure. Allow me to introduce myself."

Belinda sweeps one hand into a pocket in her dress and produces a card. She holds it out between her fingers, teasingly. The housewife takes it and reads.

"My name is Miss Weaver. I represent a new company, Veeway, that, I can assure you, are purveyors of the very highest quality products for the housewife of tomorrow."

"And who is _this_ charming young lady!" Mrs Williams says with a smile, settling a little on her knees to meet the gaze of the young girl at Belinda's hip.

"Hettie," the girl spits, in introduction, "Can we come in? I'm completely fucking famished."

The woman stands to surprised attention. "Goodness me, that's some nasty language."

Belinda laughs and pretends to have not heard. "My niece. If we might perhaps intrude? I do have some fabulous products to show you." Belinda lifts up a case and holds it up in front of the woman like it is full of gold. She pats the outside with pride, "Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back." She smiles that perfect smile again. Alex recognises the case as the one she carries in her own arms. This makes no sense!

Alex drops the case as if it somehow contagious.

The corridor is suddenly dark again, unlit, the day outside is grey and ominous. The woman, Belinda, the little girl, are all gone. She is alone.

"'Kay...so _that's_ weird," notes Alex, and picks up the case. There is it again, that strange spark.

The hall is bright again, but now the door is shut. Alex peers around the corridor to what should be the day room. She is surprised to find it utterly different. The carpet is plush and fresh, the sofas match, there are only a few pictures, all of the same family. The lamps are charmingly coordinated. In fact that is how she would describe the whole place. By the fire there is a pair of slippers, waiting to be worn; a freshly ironed newspaper; a gown folded neatly. In the dinning space there is a great mound of ironing, half done, a wireless plays Elvis and the woman, Mrs Williams, returns humming to the music with a tray of perfectly poised mugs of tea.

Belinda and the girl sit upon the furthest sofa, waiting patiently.

"I get it!" Alex exclaims, "Haha! This has already happened, right? It's like a memory or...something?" She is talking to the house, it doesn't respond. With the case in hand Alex runs to the newspaper and checks the date, "13th June 1960! What in God's name is Belinda doing here? That's not possible...is it?" Alex shrugs. She didn't think vampires, werewolves or ghosts were possible once. "Meh, guess it is then." She shrugs.

"I've read about door-to-door sales women in the papers. Didn't think we'd be lucky enough to get one visit us here in Barry, how glamorous!" says the housewife.

"Oh yes, yes it is. I have to say its a wonderful cover, people never suspect," Belinda says .

"I'm sorry?" Mrs Williams trills innocently.

"Seriously woman," the little girl snorts, "is 'thick as pig shit' your middle name? If it ain't, it should be."

"Hettie, please!" tuts Belinda.

"What? This was your idea. I'm only here for the bar snacks." Hettie grabs for the woman's arm. Mrs Williams yelps at the grasp as the little girl bears the vampiric features, with which Alex has become horribly familiar. The girl rasps.

"Good God! The child is rabid!" Mrs Williams squeaks.

"Oh no, no, she's simply a vampire Mrs Williams, we both are."

"A...a what?"

"A vampire, Mrs Williams, you will have heard of our kind I am sure."

"Well yes, but that...that's just something silly... in stories?"

"Yes, I thought so too, when I was younger."

Coolly, Belinda takes off her sunglasses . She folds them closed and holds them in her lap. Alex sees that her eyes too are black, her fangs protruding, and yet she seems in terrible control.

"I thought you said we'd find out what had happened to Hal if we came here?" Hettie snaps, "This is boring Linny, it'd better get interesting soon."

"Don't worry, Mr Williams and the children will be here shortly, won't they Grace? That'll make it interesting."

"Y...yes...I mean, no... I mean... How do you know my name?"

"Oh, we'll I know a lot about this old house, it's very special to me. I was born here in fact."

"You were?"

"In a manner. Any way, you've no need to be afraid, I'm sure we'll only take one of your children, as a kind of insurance so to speak!"

"What!"

Alex is horrified.

Belinda smiles reassuringly, "Or maybe not, that depends, will you do something for me, Grace?"

"I won't let you hurt my children!"

"You won't have a choice love," Hettie grins.

"Please, focus. Mrs Williams, Grace," Belinda taps on the case and opens it up. "I'm going to leave this here. There are a few things inside which are very precious to me, as your children are to you, and from this point forward I will leave this in your care. I will send more, when I can. I want to you take care of them. I want you to put them in here, safe. You won't tamper with them. You won't destroy them. You won't give them away. You will keep them here, nice and safe, and then, when you leave you will ask the next tenants to do the same, and compel _them_ to ask the same of whoever takes their place. If you do not do this then the lovely Hettie and I will return, and _we_ will take liberties with that which _you_ deem most precious. Is that understood?"

"I can't..."

"It's a very simple request, Grace. One I am sure you feel able to honour."

There is a knock at the door, a tremendous giggle breaks through the silence, arrested from excitable breath outside as two children return from school, satchels in hand, hopes in hearts.

"Oh God, no!" Mrs Williams squeaks with horror. She looks to the door, then the vampires. Her innocent eyes swell with tears.

Hettie too watches the door hungrily. She stands. "Bored of this shit now," she declares, "Bagsee the fat one, then no more games! I promised Wyndam, I'd take you to that turd Herrick to deal with. We're leaving!"

As Hettie leaves Belinda's eyeline Alex sees that her only female friend's cold exterior seems to be slipping. Belinda leans forward and holds the housewife's shoulder with desperation. The monster fades a moment as the Belinda whom Alex came to know so intimately makes an appearance. She pleads with Mrs Williams for her own sake. "Please, I'm begging you. You _must_ do this for me. It means... everything. I can take her out of here. We can both leave, now. Your family will be safe. No one has to die today, babes. Please!" Alex wonders if the vampire who Hettie sees is an act, whether it is _this_ Belinda that is really in control, rather than the monster. She wonders... No, she hopes.

Mrs Williams doesn't listen. Mrs Williams screams.

It is then Alex realises the real Belinda is somewhere in between the calm monster and the clever human...she is something for which control is completely alien.

The vampire in her manifests again, contorting Belinda's features wildly. She leaps at the housewife before Hettie has even reached the door. Hearing her cohort attack the girl vampire turns to watch, folding her arms and watching with some kind of distorted pride.

"God Please, Belinda no!" Alex says, under her breath.

This couldn't be real? It's a nightmare, surely? Conjured by those vile men?

Them something _truly_ surprising happens.

Belinda ceases to feast. She pulls back. She looks at Alex! Right at her, as if she can see her! She is blood spattered and momentarily tame...like a mesmerised beast.

"Did you hear that?" Belinda asks Hettie, as Mrs Williams bubbles her last squeak.

"Nah mate! Look, are you hearing voices again? 'Cause I thought we knocked that bollocks on the head! Nuttier than a bag of madmen's balls you are, Linny!" Hettie laughs with enjoyment.

"Mummy! Mummy?" the children call through the letter box.

"Mummy's sick, kids, come back later if you know what's good for you!" Hettie snarls and the letterbox snaps shut. She returns her gaze to Belinda, "Well that was dead smart wasn't it? Thought you needed her for something?"

Belinda doesn't taken her eyes off Alex until that moment. Now she calms, sits up as straight as an arrow, and surveys the mess she has made of the perfect sitting room, the pink woman too. Her features return to normal.

"Shit," she sighs.

"I'd say. Do you know what a bitch it's going to be getting rid of _that_ in this town? It's a vampire free zone Linny, and if you think I'm getting Herrick out here to clean up this mess you'll severely fucking mistaken."

Belinda turns to Hettie, "Vampire free zone?"

"Yeah, why do you think I was so surprised when you said Hal had been here! We keep away from this place, so do most supernaturals, have done for...Christ-on-a-bike...ages!"

"Why?"

"Erm, because it's a shit-hole, love, we have standards."

Linny giggles, "Seriously Hettie, that can't be the reason?"

Hettie shrugged, "It'll do good enough for you, dear. Come on, grab your shit, I don't want to stay here longer than I have to."

Belinda looks back to Mrs Williams, "No, not yet." She exposes her wrist, pierces the flesh with her fangs and lets a little of that blood, which the Collector coveted so heartily, eek from within.

Hettie stomps over and grabs as Belinda's arm. "Oh no you don't! You've no damn idea what you're doing!"

"It's already done, babes," Belinda says, pushing Hettie aside so that the virile little vampire lands on her backside. Belinda lets her blood drip into Mrs Williams' throat. The woman coughs and splutters on the last of her life and is then quiet, waiting for what will next come for her.

"Bad fucking idea, Belinda," the girl growls.

"My fucking choice, Henrietta."

"Well, we're not sticking around to see if it takes, I'm done with this crap. are you coming or do I have to make you?"

Belinda retracts her wrist as it heals and looks sadly at the poor housewife. She puts the case on the coffee table, reaches into her dress pocket again and leaves a clean card on the top. This one isn't the same, it doesn't bare her name, just an address, 'Mr R Turner; 16 Crucifix Lane, Waterloo, London'

Belinda pulls herself to her feet and fixes her outfit. She casts a glance to where Alex stands, speechless, horrified.

"Tell her I'm sorry," Belinda says to the air. Alex shakes her head, unsure what to make of it all.

Hettie grabs for Belinda and pulls her away with an exasperated groan. "Mental bloody cow, I'll be glad to get rid of you. Why is it ever vampire Hal-Bloody-Yorke makes, is off their c**ting rocker?"

Belinda casts a final glance to at the woman on the couch, and slips her sunglasses back in place. Her poised exterior immediately returns. Hettie opens the door hungrily, "Now, let's see to those sprogs," she bounces with the excited nature of a child about to play a brilliant game, and claps her hands, "It's only fair to do that poor cow a favour, save her killing her _own_ children," she says. "Tag!" she whacks Belinda on the arm, "You're it!" Hettie runs into the daylight with a laugh.

Belinda lingers at the door a moment, she is watching Alex. She seems sad then she smiles.

"Totally a moment! See you later, babes." And, with that, she is gone.

Alex looks to the couch, expecting to see the newly created vampire. Instead she sees a clean sofa, well worn, strewn with the leftovers of last night's party. The party hats lie strewn uselessly where Alex saw blood and pink chiffon before. She wonders what happened to Grace Williams. She wonders how Belinda ended up in 1960. She wonders if any of it was real. Then she remembers the case!

Hurriedly realising the memory-slash-time-travel-slash-whatever had faded, Alex spins the case around, slaps it on the sofa and unclicks the rusted clasps. She grits her teeth, both excited and terrified to find what is inside.

She swings open the lid.

And there it is!

Absolutely F-all!

She shakes the case.

No, there's _something_, an envelope tucked in the creases falls from within and floats to the floor. Alex looks at it with curiosity. It's small, with two words written there in elegant blue handwriting.

_'For Hal__'_

* * *

"What is it? What's wrong?" asks Hal, with concern, finding Alex huddled on the staircase of the B&B. Trust Hal to ask the unanswerable! What's wrong? Everything. _Where do I begin?_ Alex thinks. The men with sticks and ropes? Oliver? The great gaping hole of desperation she has to see her family again? And what can she possible say about what _else_ she has now seen?

"Where's Oliver?" Tom asks. That, at least, is an easier question to answer. So she does.

"He's gone."

Everything else, Alex decides, can come later. First she needs to see her brothers, then she'll decide whether or not to read Hal's letter.


	3. Alex is not fine

**Chapter 2: Alex is not fine**

There was no need to drive, truth be told, but as they get going again Alex understands why Tom and Hal had been so insistent for the road-trip to take her to her family: they thought that she was going to stay. It was sweet really. Dead sweet.

She stayed in the car all the way back for their sake but it was hard to do. Little was said about anything of consequence after Hal put his foot on the gas. The phrase 'very not good' hung in the middle of them like one of her Dad's farts for a long time.

Every few junctions or so Alex had an urge to play a game of mini-punch, or eye-spy, the 'woman driver or wanker driver?' game...but the urge failed as soon as it rose, Alex bit her tongue and stared out of the window at the passing traffic. Games, however fun, didn't feel appropriate. It had been so long since Hal had a family, and Tom well he said he was afraid of killing his, so they could hardly relate to the feelings that Alex was wrestling with. She needed something to talk about though, something to pierce the boredom.

"Sooooo...how weird was it that Annie said she time travelled, eh?! I mean _mental_ or what?!" Alex laughs, as if making the kind of absent talk associated with football conversations at the pub. She applies the tone that she might normally use to say 'See that ludicrous display last night?' or 'What was Wenger thinking, sending Walcott on that early?'

She can't judge Hal's reaction in the rear-view mirror, but Tom quickly spins in his chair and catches her eye.

"Sorry, what?"

"Nothin', just breaking the mega-awkward silence. What do people like us talk about when there's no normal stuff going on?" She looks to Hal, hoping for assistance but the back of his head is markedly ignoring her. Given what Annie had implied she had seen in her jaunt into the future Alex isn't surprised why.

"Sorry, too soon to be bringing up Annie?" She judges.

"It's fine. It's nice," Hal says with a heavy timbre, "We shouldn't pretend she didn't exist just because she's gone." He neither takes his eyes off the road nor breaks above 60pmh, "And yes, it _was_ strange."

"Thought so," Alex laughs awkwardly, "I mean, as if anyone could see into the future or...I don't know... the past... or, I dunno, whatever. I'm just saying, haha, wouldn't it be odd if I, say, for example, got some kind of vision of shit that's already happened...or..." her voice trailed off, Tom looks at her with a confused face. "I mean you've never heard of _that_ I bet, whether 'barriers between the worlds' are thin or not...haha..."

"You alright like, Alex?" Tom asks.

"I'm fine," she says. Alex is not fine.

Silence again.

It's Hal's turn to interject now.

"Actually, I wouldn't be so surprised by that Alex, I've heard of ghosts being able to have quite astonishingly clear visions of the past."

"Really?" Alex sits forward so she can see Hal's features. She is trying to judge if he is being sarcastic or not.

"Really?" Tom adds too.

"It's rare, but I've heard it is possible."

"Neat. I wish I had superpowers..." he sighs. "It'd be dead cool."

"Some would argue you _do_, Tom," laughed Hal.

"Yeah, bad breath and hairy feet, I'm hardly Superman mate."

"I'll make you a cape," Alex jokes.

Tom turns in his seat speedily and looks at her with hope, "Will yer, like?"

"Err, no! Do I look like I know how to use a sewing machine, it was a joke," she drawls in her duh-stupid voice.

Tom frowns, "No need to be rude like, I was just askin'" he slumps back into the passenger seat.

They pass the services and Hal asks respectfully if anyone would 'like to use the facilities'. Alex points out she doesn't go to the bathroom, while Tom points out he has an iron bladder. The opportunity passes.

"So it's possible then?" Alex says again, eventually, as flippantly as she can muster.

Hal is quiet a moment, "Alex, is there something you want to talk about?"

"No," she huffs. How can she tell Hal what she had seen?

"Really?" He's being sarcastic, this time she can tell, "Only you don't normally act like this, clearly something is bothering you."

"I just saw something odd at the house it all, it's ne bother, really."

"Like Oliver?" Tom asks, "Another ghost?"

"Nah, seriously it's okay."

"Alex," Hal says simply, in that manner-of-fact 'spit it out' way he has.

"It's silly, it was after the...after the men from the otherside left, it was just, I dunno, odd. Someone came to the house, like a saleswoman and I went to answer the door but it was like someone else answered, someone who lived at the house, and they had this, like whole...conversation and then Linny left...I mean the saleswoman person thing."

Tom stared at her wide eyed, '_Belinda!?' _ he mouths.

Alex just gives him a stern 'leave-it' stare back._  
_

Hal responds obliviously, "It's really not so surprising, Alex, I wouldn't worry. Given what had just occurred, you just caught an echo. I don't expect it will happen to you again."

Maybe Hal is right, maybe it won't happen again? The problem is that Alex _wants_ it to. Anyway, she has a horrible feeling Hal is lying to her, for her own good, maybe, but nevertheless she needs to find out whether it was a one off. She just _has_ to. There's only one thing for it. She's going to have to go ghost hunting. Annie said she had learned what she had from other ghosts. If she wasn't going to get it out of Hal she'd just have to hang out with her own kind a bit. As long as they weren't all as annoying as Oliver she'd be fine...Fine...just, totally fine.

"See!" Alex says to Tom, "Ne Bother. Right?" she threatens Tom with a death stare.

"Right," Tom says, but she knows what he really means is 'we'll talk about this later', before he settles down slowly in his chair.

A few minutes pass and Tom begins to shuffle awkwardly in the seat. At first Alex is horribly worried that the mention of the B word has caused Tom terrible anxiety. Then he pipes up, "Mind if we pull over, mate, I need to pay a visit to the bushes."

Hal spits with laughter, if anything he slows down but doesn't stop.

"Seriously man, I'm bustin'," Tom begs, crossing his legs.

"I did offer, Tom," smirks Hal.

"Well I didn't need it then like did I?"

"You drank a litre of fizzy pop while we were waiting. What did you think was going to happen?"

Alex knows sooner or later Hal will soon pull over to find a hard-shoulder to let his friend get out an pee, but she knows he'll let Tom stew for a bit first.

"And?"

"And...one might normally equate a litre of liquid entering one's body, with the imminent likelihood of it needing to exit!"

"What?"

"You drank too much."

"I'm going to piss in the car mate, seriously. Alex, here any bottles back there?"

Alex can feel Hal's horror from the back, she smiles. _This_, she grins, _this is normal. _No need to bring up supernatural shit if she doesn't have to. She doesn't want to spoil the moment. Blokes arguing over whether or not to pull over for a pee-stop...this is humanity, right here.

When Hal realises Tom isn't really going to soil his beloved Merc, the minor victory over Tom's bladder seems to have put him in a good mood. He drifts the car into a layby just in time for Tom to fling the door open and go running toward a particularly prickly looking underbrush.

Hal waits. He smiles at Alex, and she smiles back. "Are you alright, really? You know we can talk about it."

"I'm fine. Properly fine," Alex smiles, "Thanks for askin' though. How about you, you doing alright? No moments or overtures, or whatever?"

"I'll be fine if you are," he says simply.

They laugh as they hear Tom swear at the bushes. Hal closes his eyes and rests as the traffic sweeps by them, rocking the old car on its axles from the sidelines. He even starts humming tunefully. It reminds her of the first time they met and she thinks, perhaps, this whole set-up _can_ be normal after all. It'll be fine. Just fine, she thinks to herself as Tom dances back into the passenger seat and informs Hal how 'not funny' he is being. Hal points him in the direction of the wetwipes in the glove box and they set off again.

Hal continues to hum for a good five minutes until Tom proposes a game of eye-spy.

It takes Alex a while to realise why the tune Hal has been preoccupied with seems so hauntingly familiar. It's a Sonny and Cher number, _I got you babe, _if she's not mistaken.


	4. Quote…Unquote

**Chapter 3: Quote…Unquote**

"I don't get it," declares Alex .

Hal rolls his eyes and attempts to explain again, "It featured a number of well-known guests. They would be quizzed about quotations, famous, amusing, obscure. It was really rather funny."

"Sounds deadly dull," Alex says.

"It was educational and amusing."

"Yeah, no offence Hal, but your sense of humour is colossally weird. I mean you don't even find Keith Lemon funny."

Hal responds with a dead stare.

"Oh! Come on! Keith Lemon!" Alex pleads with wild gesticulations, "You know it's hilarious. We watched it when you were detoxing. You said you were glad you had 'survived so long to have the opportunity to witness such wonders'."

"I may have been attempting sarcasm, Alex."

"Tom loved it."

"Tom thinks washing powder advertisements are high-drama."

Alex snorts with laughter, "Actually, I'm messin' with you. I think you called it infantile and, yeah, witless."

"I did? I think I must have suppressed the entire experience for fear it would drive me to drink."

"Hal, e_veryone who watches it _thinks Keith Lemon is funny."

"Then by the powers of deduction we can fathom that everyone who watches it is, indeed, infantile and witless."

Alex sighs and slumps back in the sofa. "OhmyGod! Fine what was this radio show you liked called again?"

"_Quote…unquote._" He laughs to himself, his mouth buckling into a pert and cheeky smirk, "There was this particular episode when they read out a quote I shared with them in a letter, an 'eve's dropping' as they call it, an overheard remark; I had heard it once while passing two American women in Hyde park, they were looking at the particularly," he coughs, "well endowed statue of Achilles, and the one said to the other, 'No dear, Big Ben is a _clock_." He laughs to himself. "Perfect."

"See," she says, punching him in the arm joshingly, "_colossally _weird," though she quietly gets the funny.

Hal seems disappointed at her put-down, and she'll admit that perhaps she had gone a bit far. She hadn't wanted to upset him or spoil the mood.

"You were the one who asked about it Alex, why must everything be a battle with you?"

"Because I didn't ask about some daft game show maybe, I just asked if you knew who said that French quote in the paper and what it meant."

"Like I said, it was from Satre, '_On ne peut vaincre le mal que par un autre mal_', means, 'One can overcome the evil by another evil'...what was the context? Is this just another way to get me to speak French, because I thought we talked about this..."

"Nah," she lies, that had been at least part of her purpose, "Anyway, I'm not sure how some stupid radio show has anything te do with anything."

"You said you should come up with some more quotes because it would fun to test me, and I said that reminded me of the gameshow on Radio Four."

"Which I don't get."

"But it's what you just suggested," he says with breathy exasperation, "Really Alex, are you trying to be obtuse?"

"Oh. Noooo, what _I_ was suggesting was something where I could make you feel dumb 'cause you didn't know the answer, like to movies and stuff. No' one where I feel like a muppet because I've not red Decant or whatever."

"You mean Descartes."

"I mean 'Whatever'."

Hal swallows his exasperation and tries some controlled breathing.

Before Alex can launch into her next idea, Hal interrupts, "Actually...Perhaps...yes, perhaps we can marry the two concepts?" he says with sudden inspiration and amusement, "It'll pass the morning nicely."

Alex pulls a face, "What? Wait no, I wasnae suggestin'..."

Hal doesn't listen, he rises from the sofa with stiff-backed purpose. "I will be but a moment!" he says, running upstairs.

Alex laughs to see his excitement. She loves this side of him, it's so sweetly Baden Powell. When he gets like this she half expects him to come downstairs sporting a woggle, a Scoutly salute, and a pair sticks ready to start a camp fire and sing 'Gingangoolie'. It reminds her of the boys in the Famous Five books she used to read to Deccy when he was a kid, before he grew into wanting to read about sports and cars. There's something so oddly innocent about this side of Hal, something that she hopes he'll never loose no matter how old he gets.

Hal returns with a heavy book, some paper and a shoe box. He drops the book beside Alex. It's the Oxford Book of Quotations. It is so heavy it could kill a child. Horrible images of Hal bludgeoning people to death with it jump into her mind.

"Pick a good dozen, I'll do the same," Hal instructs.

The game proceeds as follows: Alex finds few quotes out of the book, she tries to find some really obscure ones, plus a few from her head, and writes them on some papers; Hal eagerly scribes from memory and at one point grabs one of the magazines on the table so to spatter to selection with something more 'up to date'; they tare up the strips of paper, fold them and put them in the box. Hal gives it a good stir and a shake and then holds out the box for Alex. "Ladies first," he says.

Alex dips in her hand with fake recalcitrance and reads the quote, which she has retrieved, out loud. "Neither a borrower or a lender be," she recites flatly.

"You have to know this."

"I don't. Go on, I can tell you're gagging to tell me."

"William Shakespeare, Alex," he sighs, "Really." Hal tuts but succumbs to superior amusement eventually and picks out a piece of paper for himself.

He reads, "_bar mazaar-i-ma gharibaan,_

_na-chiragh-e na-gulley,_

_na-parrey parwaanan sozad,_

_na-sadaey bulbuley." _

Alex grins, there's no way he'll know this one "Ha!" she says, "No' so clever now eh?"

"This one is easy, " Hal declares, "It's an epitaph written by the Empress Nur Jahan for her tomb. I saw it once in my travels there, before it was destroyed. If I recall it roughly translates as:

_'On this poor forsaken person's tomb,_

_No lamp shall burn, No flowers bloom,_

_So no burnt moth flutters overhead,_

_The silence of the nightingale _

_s__hall tell the world I am dead._

Alex is struck dumb by the beauty of the poetry. Hal's recital in both Persian and English are both equally haunting. With the way the morning light falls in the room at that moment the whole world seems strangely rich. Alex doesn't know whether to kiss him or to cry.

"She was an amazing woman the Empress, loved by many, and in the epitaph the word 'parwanna' means 'moth' in sher but can be interchanged with 'obsessed lover', which makes the poem rather teasing if you think about it."

"Seriously, dude, you're like a walking encyclopedia. I don't like this, can't you pick out the quotes I put in there from Die Hard?"

"Die Hard?"

"See! You could have picked out 'Yippee-ki-yay, _motherfucker_', but no, _you_ have te pick out the fricking Empress of Whohar's beautiful bloody epitaph and _actually_ know it in _both_ languages. It's sickening. And it read kinda funny on the page...but you have te go and make it sound sexy. What is wrong with you?"

She quietly hopes he didn't notice she called him sexy. She can tell by his smile that he did.

"Your turn," he encourages.

"Fine!"

"Off you go then..." He folds his arms in patient amusement.

She picks out another piece of paper, coughs melodramatically and reads, " _'There's a massive goat in my sitting room…Ghosts, I said Ghosts, Who has any strong opinions on goats?!'_ Oh! You beauty, MIRANDA!" Alex bounces in a winning way, "Shit I love that show."

"Finally, something we can agree on. Now there is a creature who has true wit."

They both giggle, thinking of their Miranda-marathons, one of the few television programmes they had found that they had both enjoyed.

"Plinth," says Alex. "The King of Words."

"Moist," says Hal. "The Queen of words."

"Imagine a moist plinth?...oh, Bottom," Alex enunciates comically as Tom walks through the sitting room and finds them both grinning stupidly. He stares at them in silence. Both Alex and Hal burst into a fit of amusement.

"A'right?" Tom says, scratching his head, having only just awoken.

"Getting up from a hard morning lying in bed, are we?" Hal smirks.

"You been on the kiora again, mate?" Tom grunts cluelessly as he grabs his shirt. "I'm havin' a shower. Didn't yer say you was goin' out later Hal?"

"Yes, momentarily," Hal admits.

"You'll be wantin' company, right?"

"I think I shall be alright, Tom, but thank you for the offer. Let's enjoy our day off shall we." He turns to Alex as Tom retreats back upstairs, "My turn?" he asks.

"Yeah, I mean 'Thank you kindly if you please'."

Hal reaches into the box and extracts a small piece of paper. He quietly unfolds it and jumps into a recital boldly. Though he begins confidently his voice trails to almost nothing as he reads.

_"'Je déteste mes compatriotes êtres et ne se sentent pas que je suis leur homme à tout'" _

Hal pauses, the amusement of moments before suddenly feel a lifetime away.

At first Alex is distracted by the very act of Hal's reading in French, but then she notes that something has crept over his features like a foul wind. Worryingly, she realises that it is something else other than deep thought which has driven him to silence. Something dark inside him has stirred. His smile is taught and superior, his eyes glint with reminiscence.

"Hm," he hums to himself with horrible depth, "Colette,"

Alex smacks him on the leg.

"What?" he says, snapping out of it when Alex catches his eye.

"You went all…"

He looks at Alex in horror and stands, "We are done with this game. You're right, it's dull." His stance is taught, controlled but the panic in him is betrayed by the little movements in his hands. He is shaking.

"Hal, who's Colette?"

"No one, I'm sure there's some washing up to do. Excuse me." He walks away.

Alex follows, appearing in the kitchen as Hal searches frantically for the marigolds.

"Who's Colette?"

"No one, I was mistaken, I meant to say Flaubert. It's a quote from one of his speeches. Gustave Flaubert."

"No, you _said_ Colette," she says. Seeing the gloves behind her and snatches them into her protection. He reaches for them but she rentaghosts out of his way.

"Give me the damned gloves, Alex?"

"Only when you tell me who Colette is."

"No one, a vampire, an old acquaintance is all."

"And you two…"

"Once or twice."

"I swear to God you need to get tested."

"Alex, don't be crude, I was a different man back then. Such 'relations'" he skirts around the subject coyly, "were simply part of that lifestyle, and outlet for one's…"

"Zombie Semen?"

Hal's eye bulge with horror, "You know your language is sometimes…" he bites his lip, "surprisingly colourful. The gloves, if you please." She hands them over before he gets truly irate. He clearly needs to vent, better he take it out on the dishes than humanity. He snaps them on and turns on the hot water with aggression.

"Did you love her?"

"Love wasn't part of my vocabulary back then. She was a means to an end."

Alex guffaws, "And her 'end' was a nice one I take it?"

"Can we talk about something else? It isn't a healthy subject. Isn't one of your shows on?"

"This is more important than 'Saturday Kitchen'."

"It is not." Hal snatches the fairy liquid and squirts a green spurt into the water. He drops his hands in the suds to give them a good swirl, taking his anxiety out on the water. "It is not important at all."

"What did it mean?"

"Christ, Alex, _please_. It meant nothing. She was just a passing fancy."

"What did the _quote_ mean?"

"Oh…" Hal turns off the tap. He sighs, "It was the last thing I said to her. It was a quote from a mutually appreciated author. It means 'I detest my fellow-beings and do not feel that I am their fellow at all'."

"Wow, talk about sweet-nothings!"

Hal retrieves the 'World's Greatest Dad' mug from the sideboard and plunges it violently into the water.

"Shit!" He spits, as the thing smashes in the water from his aggressive washing. "Now look what you made me do."

"Me?!"

He retracts his hand, the detached handle, and a bloody dishcloth. The china has cut through the yellow latex of the gloves and nicked his knuckle. He snaps off the glove and puts pressure on the wound, "Hot water and china, bad mix."

He scoops into the water and retrieves the mug, "I liked that one," he says sadly, resting it, and the handle on the side as if he plans to fix it later, before replacing the glove over his healed hand and going back into the bubbles with a calmer attitude.

"What do you mean it 'was the last thing you said'? Is she dust?" Alex asks, hopping up on the sideboard and kicking her feet against the cupboard with exasperating inconsistency.

"I don't think so. They were more like parting words, an alternative to 'Au Revoir'."

"You must've been a barrel of laughs to date back then. Will you quote Miranda to me when you abandon me please, only it'll make my bloody day. You can do it in French if you want..."

Hal reaches over. He stops her kicking with a soapy hand on her knee. Alex looks down at it. "Careful, Mr Yorke, a lady could get ideas," she grins, winks.

"Colette _helped_ me." He explains as calmly as he is able, "I had decided to leave that life behind and she helped me accomplish that, with Leo. She was there the night I made the choice to put it all behind me, assisted in our absconding and was party to the charade that convinced my 'fellow-beings' that I had perished. Before we drove away she asked me why I wished to go and I quoted Flaubert. She understood. Now, might we leave this? I have important business to attend to today and need to be… I need to be calm before I face the world."

Alex smiles reassuringly, "Sure, I'll just go and…" she hops to the floor, "…watch Saturday kitchen or something, or cartoons. You do what you need to do."

She leaves him and wanders into the day room, hopping onto the table by the mural and contemplating the game. When she is sure Hal is deep into his routine she slips her hand into her coat pocket and retrieves the note she had found in Belinda's red case. She pushes her hand into the already open envelope and retrieves what she had found. The words stare up at her in the French language, _'Je déteste mes compatriotes êtres et ne se sentent pas que je suis leur homme à tout'_. She had needed to find out what they had meant. She thought that a silly game would assist in the translation, and had wanted to test out Hal's canny linguistic abilities...

"Haha, canny linguist, geddit?" Alex laughs at her internal monologue, "…no?" There's no one around to appreciate the joke, Ryan would have laughed at that.

Tom appears, "What'dyer say?"

"Nothing," Alex smiles. "What you got planned today?"

"Work innit, an' a full moon tonight so got'te go to Aldi and get a chicken like, plus I thought I'd try and talk to that bloke Larry, the werewolf stayin' at the hotel. I could get some tips and such..."

Hal returns from the kitchen, poised. He smiles at his friend. "I'm not sure about him, Tom. I would err on the side of caution if I were you, "

"Larry? He's my hero like, famous an' handsome and married to Miss Avon & Somerset 94' _and_ 96'"

"Do you even know what that means, Tom?" Alex asks.

Tom shrugs, "Nah, but it's impressive like, right? It's ded heroic to be a werewolf with a family an' a job n'all. You two jus' don't get it."

Hal shakes his head, "Show me a hero and I will write you a tragedy, Tom." He says and looks to Alex, "F. Scott Fizgerald."

Tom looks confused.

"Don't ask," Alex says as Hal retreats upstairs saying something about getting changed and Tom goes to get his breakfast.

Alone, Alex pockets the note and thinks about the message that had been left for Hal. She had no idea the words would be so meaningful to him and yet they had to mean something. Half of her is surprised he didn't immediately start talking about some deep secret, or start going on about Linny again, or...God, something! Anything! But what happened, she saw a shade of his former self, got an anecdote about some ex-shag and one broken mug.

No. Thinking about it, that was about as close to bearing his soul that Hal got to!

But what could it mean? It had to mean something. Alex wonders if this 'Colette' is still alive and has horrible feeling she needs to find out.


	5. SOPHY

**Chapter 4 : S.O.P.H.Y.**

The last place Alex expected to end up that evening was in some seedy Cardiff club, getting 'drunk' with a woman who has been dead for over two centuries; but hey, them's the breaks when your living companions now consist of someone who has been undead since before indoor toilets were all the rage, and someone who thinks you've made it when you have your name printed out on a card from the library. No, in hindsight, when Alex had met the day she should have pretty much expected that this was how it would work out. Based upon present experiences, traumatising drunken Cardiffians with Hal's ex squeeze, and class-A nutball, "Lady Mary", was as likely an outcome as popping to the moon for a game of twister with Lenin, or perhaps solving the pensions crisis with the aid of a supernatural potato called Keith.

"Come oooon," drawls Mary, dragging Alex away from the fight she has just started, "Let's have some more fun! I know!" She starts looking around the crowd like a prowling pissed panther in, frankly shocking, partywear.

"Mary, seriously, can' we just sit down and talk or something?"

"Fuck me, what do you think I did all my life? All that talking. I swear to Holy Motorhead, talking is for tossers. If Hal hadn't topped me I'd have died of tedium before I married. Oh! Here!" She has found a couple in a dark corner who are dry-humping so violently it's a surprise to Alex that all the nylon, which they are both sporting, hasn't begun to spontaneously combust from the friction. Mary 'reads' the woman by laying both hands on her boobs with a big grin on her face. "Any minute now she's going to drag him to the bogs." Mary grins a wide set of horse teeth and slumps in the chair to wait for what Alex suddenly realises is going to happen.

"Oh my God, you're not going to watch them have sex?"

"Why not? I didn't get any while I was alive. You've got to take what you can, you know."

"That's...okay, so that's kind of understandable. But, wait, no, seriously, nothing?"

Mary shakes her head sadly, "I had hopes for a certain," she laughs, interspersing her next few words with liberal air quotes," 'mutual', 'acquaintance' if you get my drift. Nothing filthy back then of course, just marriage and then 'whatever came next'. You can imagine my shock to find out what I'd missed out on! I mean, fuck me, talk about disappointing anti-climax! He could have at least got me laid before he killed me. At least then he'd have had something to tide him by too," she says whistfully. "Such a tragedy really."

"I'm sorry, are you telling me that, as far as you're aware, Hal's been -" Alex coughs to hide her horror at the depth of Hal's deceit, "- celebate all this time too?"

"He's been very strong. It's truly admirable! Of course, I helped, shooed off any undesirables I could."

Alex is horrified.

"Not that he's not had his run-ins of course. But he's assured me that he managed to rebuff the advances of the little sluts who've knocked on his door. I mean, he wouldn't have stayed clean this long if he hadn't, that's for sure. They've tried though," Mary's features darken, "shit-the-bed there've been tonnes! They try and get me out the way, you know, the ones that found out about me. But I saw them off. Even that SOPHY lot, their intentions aren't what they claim... no. I know they're game. Horny little bitches." The woman beside them groans euphorically. Mary grins, "Any minute now, you're in for a treat. Best. Fun .Ever!"

"Sophie who?"

"No, like S.O.P.H.Y," she spells out, as if Alex has taken stupid pills.

"What's that when it's at home?"

"I don't know but it stands for something like the Supernatural Order for the Protection of Harry Yorke, I think." She laughs her arse off, "massive pile of wank if you ask me. I mean! I told her, I don't need their help, neither does Hal. We're doing just fucking great. What we have works, and has worked for a dick of a long time. They can do what the hell they like, creep around in their secret corners if they want. I don't need to creep about to help Hal. I just need to be here for him."

Alex's jaw has fallen slack.

"There's a secret society of supernaturals looking out for Hal?!"

Mary slams her hand over her mouth, she hiccups, "Fuck! Forget I said anything. It's like a massive fucking secret. Blame the gin. It's all bullshit."

"Oh-ho-no! You're no' letting that one slip by? Seriously, Mary, you've got te tell me everything."

"No I don't!" Mary spurts, then hiccups again.

"Yeah, you totally do."

"Look if you've not heard about it then it either doesn't exist anymore or they don't think you're..."

"What!"

"Suitable. I wouldn't be offended, you're like a total noob to this shitfest."

"I'm sorry, No' SUITABLE?!" A glass on a nearby table shatters.

Mary giggles, "Don't have an eppy Alex, like I said you're new, and they're dead picky. Haha, dead, geddit?"

"Who's in it?" Alex has no sense of humour for Mary right now.

"Did I mention it's a secret society? I don't know."

"Well you must know at least one, you said you 'told her', who was that?"

"Oh, there were two...visits I got. One from some french hussy and another from this insanely fucking creepy bitch whose intentions were blatantly bloodthirsty. I wasn't letting her anywhere near Hal, so told her where to get off pretty quick;..well, eventually."

"The French woman, was she called Colette?"

Mary tries to think for a bit. Her face works hard to fashion coherent thought through the banging drum-n-bass, second-hand inebriation and the fact that she is apparently as bonkers as a basket full of rabid labs on crack. "Yeah. Look, maybe I should just show you?" she says eventually, in a lopsided manner. She stares at the couple beside them, "He's being fucking slow cus he's gazeeboed. They'll be another five minutes yet."

"Show me? How?"

"It's a ghost thing. You've not done it yet? Christ, you are green. It's better than telly I swear. Hang on, there's no cocking way I'm this with a clear head. I hated the whole conversation the first time around! I am NOT going through it again sober." She grasps the woman beside them forcefully, drinking in as much of the sensation of inebriation as she can, before then accosting Alex's wrists with both hands. "Hold onto your coil darling! I've not done this with another ghost before, it could get seriously fucked-up."

* * *

Alex finds herself in a basement.

"What is it with supernaturals and basements?" she says out loud, finding Mary on her arse in the corner, slumped like a deflated bouncy castle in that dress.

"Beats me, love."

"What are we doing in a basement?" Alex asks and then realises that they are not alone. Mary's eyes are on something behind Alex. Alex turns.

"What the fuck!" she says, but the words aren't entirely her own. She realises she is playing out an event in Mary's past, even the things she said.

"Hello there," grins a dumb looking vampire with little hair and a turned up collar. He wraps his arms around Alex and holds tight.

"Mary," Alex asks, "what the hell is this?"

The vampire talks over her, as Alex tries to get Mary's attention, calling for his colleague and saying "It's okay, I've got 'er!"

Mary explains, "It was 1966, a few days before I was meant to be back at the house for Hal's visit but I, well, I'd been on a bit of a bender. I'd met this bunch of hippies that were SO much fun, I'd been stoned for about a month solid and had lost track of time when these vampires arrived. They killed all the hippies and brought me here. Major buzz-kill."

A door opens, a small and ginger vampire enters.

"Hold tightly, Seth. Lady Mary," the ginger vampire nods at Alex, "someone needs to speak with you." He reaches into his pocket and produces a little crystal salt shaker. With a calm and practiced hand the man walks around Alex and the other vampire etching a circle of salt around them.

Lady Mary continues to explain, "Salt. I hate that shit."

When the other vampire backs away Alex tries to attack him, she fails. Alex has already learned salt has an effect of keeping ghosts in one place and knows that every attempt she makes will be futile. She presumes that, at the time, Lady Mary did not know this.

The ginger vampire replaces the salt shaker and smiles in a vile, leonine way, "It's for your own good, dear. My name is William Herrick, it's a pleasure to meet you. We shan't keep you long, but if you wouldn't mind sitting tight for just a few moments there is someone very special visiting who has requested the pleasure of your company. Seth, would you inform our guest that the Lady is secure," the dumb vampire grins and leaves.

Herrick? Alex thinks, she had heard that name before, in the vision she had had at the B&B.

"Who_ is_ this little bastard?" she asks Lady Mary.

Lady Mary slurs in a non committal manner and shrugs, "Don't know now, didn't know then, but if I see him again I'll deck him. Look at that smug fucking face, honestly, don't you just want to smack it?"

She tries to pull herself up from her drunken slump to make good on her promise but the little man has turned and left before she is able. A few moments pass. Alex can hear a conversation in the corridor but can't make out the words. When the man returns, be brings with him a chair and, along with the furniture, one:

"Belinda-fucking-Weaver!"

"You _know_ her?" Lady Mary asks in horror.

Herrick places the chair in front of Alex and dusts it down with his hand.

"Know her?!" Alex laughs, "Mary, you have no idea."

Belinda has short hair, cut in an elfin style with a red scarf wrapped around her head, tied in a great bow at her shoulder. Her dress is black, coy, high skirted. She carries a china tea-cup full to the brim with blood, and sits on the chair placed by Herrick as if she is about to be interviewed for Vogue magazine. As before she seems to be sporting a giant pair of sunglasses, they dominate half her face but it can't be as a disguise, Alex knows her immediately. She waits, Herrick looks at her expectantly as the vampire sips at her drink in a fashionable manner, watching Alex. Eventually she places the cup upon the floor.

"I would rather like it if you went back to the party, babes," she says to Herrick, then looks up at him, "This won't take long. Girl talk, you know. Keep that young chap warm for me will you, he looks like fun."

"I could stay, if you want, this ghost is over two centuries old, she could have a few nasty tricks up her sleeve."

Belinda smiles, "Oh, babes, and you and I both know I have a few of my own." she reaches out a perfectly manicured hand and rests it on his, "I'll be just dandy darling, you run along now. I'll be back before desert has gone rigid, promise."

"It's just, if anything were to happen to you the Old Ones..."

"Shhh," Belinda tuts, "I'm sure that you wouldn't get in any sort of trouble, Willy, they know I can be a loose canon, just blame it on that if anything goes awry. You're position will be perfectly fine whatever I do." She pats his hand in manner that only another woman would recognise as patronising. Herrick seems to take it as a compliment.

"Right, yes, well, I suppose you're right."

"Of course I am, you're a bid deal, a very successful vampire Mr Herrick, regardless of any sort of scrapes I'm sure I cause, Snow and the others are fully aware of that. I'll do my best to put a good word in, you know that."

Herrick smiles, his ego appropriately placated. "Very well, don't have too much fun, you know how it spoils your appetite."

He leaves them alone, shutting the heavy door behind them. Belinda shakes her head in amusement, "I don't know, men, they don't like to admit when they're inferior do they?"

Alex feels a strange terror. She can't explain it. It's something she has never experienced when faced with her old friend. She presumes that these are Mary's emotions bleeding through. Even the real Lady Mary has now gone quiet. Alex looks at the old ghost expectantly, "She's alright," Alex tries to reassure Mary, "Seriously, she's one of the good-guys."

"No, I'm not," Belinda says. Alex spins back to stare at her, but it's as if the words had not left Belinda's mouth.

"What did you say?"

"I said 'men, they don't like to admit when they're inferior do they', so, where were we, oh yes, it's Mary, isn't it?"

Alex nodded because Mary had nodded.

"Good, welcome. I hope the boys weren't too rough with you?"

Alex shakes her head because Mary had shook her head.

"Marvellous, so, let's get down to brass tacks. Mary, you're fucking everything up."

"I'm what?"

"You. Gallivanting across half of the UK like a gap-year student, getting into all sorts of trouble, hanging out with stoners and nitwits and tits. You're a Lady, Ladies don't behave that way."

"I'll do what I goddamn please," Alex protests.

"No, No you won't. You'll go back to your old house and you'll behave yourself. You have a reputation to maintain and you're in desperate likelihood of your shenanigans getting you a very different reputation, one that will get back to Hal, and I can't have that. We can't have it. It just won't do." She picks up the china cup at her side and takes another delicate sip. "Do you even know what date it is?"

"Errm, no. How do you know about Hal?"

"How or what I know about Hal is between me and him. The fact that I have mentioned him stays in these four walls, my colleagues believe him dead and that will remain what they think. As far as they are concerned I have asked to see you only because you're an entertaining little cow and I'm in need of something to cheer me up. You, however, get to know the real reason."

"You're one of that SOPHY lot aren't you? We don't need you. I can keep him off the blood perfectly well. I told the other one.."

Belinda smiles, "What makes you think I want him _clean_?"

"That's...I just presumed. She said you were trying to protect him."

"What we mean by protection, Mary, and what our motives are...are between us. My reasons are equally private. Since you declined the offer Colette made you, to be part the solution, this not only does means that such reasons are none of your business, it also makes you part of the problem, which is why you are here and why I have visited. Quite frankly, you need to get your shit together, babes, clean up your act, present yourself nice and proper in two days and do your bit."

"What do you mean, do my bit! I'm fine. Let me out now!"

"No, Mary, you're not fine, you're closhed up to the eyeballs and liable to send a very fragile vampire off the rails when he realises what a mess he's made of your sorry little life. You need to dry out yourself. Herrick has kindly offered to help, a favour I did not want to have to call in, and you will be let out in due course to meet the deadline if, and only if, you are in the right state. If you don't clean up your act I will persuade Leo to put off the visit indefinitely, he listens to me. He trusts me and understands that it is better that Hal doesn't see you at all rather than risk him seeing what you have become. If you don't get your act together I'll just have to get rid of you, and believe me, I know exactly how to do that. I'm rather intimate with your kind. You'd be surprised the secrets I know about how to utterly balls up your afterlife. You have no idea of the shit I can do, not many people do, but I'd be willing to show you if it means keeping Hal safe from Miss Walking-Disaster 1760."

She stands, finishes her drink and smiles. "Oh, and one more thing, Hal has something that I need you to lay your hands on."

"I'm not doing anything for you."

"Contrarily, you are. If we let you out of here then you're going to owe me a big favour, one which I do not need you to repay except by obtaining a small favour which he will barely miss."

"What?"

"In your stately home there is a room in which the National Lepidoptra Society have housed a collection of rare butterflies."

"And?"

"You're missing the _Calyptra R-Turni. _It's very rare and very special. I suggest you ask Hal about it when you next meet, he may be able to complete the collection for you. I'm sure, if he loves you as much as he truly does, that he will gratefully assist. Goodbye, Mary, and do keep this conversation secret babes, I'd hate to bump into, I don't know, some mouthy ghost who's prone to verbal diarrhea and has somehow got wind of everything and spoiled all our carefully laid plans; 'secret is, as secret does',Alex."

"UNGH!" an orgasmic cry breaks the silence.

Belinda's expression suddenly changes, her gaze turns to her left, Alex follows her eyeline.

Beside them, in the old basement, are two rutting teenagers, "Ohmygawd, Fuck me now Dewi!" says the girl in a heavy welsh drawl.

Mary has become distracted, has let go of Alex and has started molesting the bonking couple again.

"I saaaaid, 'Fuck this, it's boring, Alex," Mary drawls as if repeating herself.

"Mary!" Alex screams as the vision vanishes.

"What? Come on, they're totally going to do it!"

Alex understands, the memory of being stuck in that basement, they claustrophobia of it, the pain of the idea of never seeing Hal again and being sent into some kind of hellish oblivion, teased with the idea that somehow she was to blame for whatever fate awaited her, has left a bad taste in her mouth..or maybe that's just the recollection of the hangover Mary had been experiencing at the time. She finds herself hating Belinda, and yet, completely understanding and agreeing with what she did all at the same time. And on top of that, she can't help but think something is wrong with everything she keeps seeing! Why was Belinda sporting shades in a basement of all places? She wasn't _that_ much of a fashionista, was she? And why does Alex have the galling sensation that Belinda knew that Alex was there the whole time, did she _really_ say her name or was that because Mary is a loon, maybe that's just how it always is? Truthfully Alex is not sure.

The basement vanishes, so does Belinda, and before Alex can protest she is being dragged into the Club toilets by Mary. They follow the horny couple, hell bent on bonking each others tiny brains out until the last remaining cells they have in their inebriated heads are knocked onto the floor to be brushed away with tomorrow morning's rubbish.

None of this is Alex's idea of a good night out!


	6. Le Papillon Épinglé

**Chapter 5 : Le Papillon Épinglé**

"Accidents _do_ happen, Hal."

Yes, accidents happen. That was what he said. But, he's wrong. I hate that he's wrong. This isn't just a slip of the temper. This wasn't an _accident_.

Rook clears away the mess I have made in the day room. He zips the remnants of Larry away, dropping the statement educationally, as if he is distributing advice on one of those Public Service Announcements that Pearl used to make me endure. "It's only natural, given what you are, Hal. But not to worry," _ziiiiiiiip, _"We shall say no more about the matter." He is the embodiment of calm, avuncular, patronising. I feel the urge to scoop those two glazed baby-blues of his out of his skull with a spatula! But instead, with a grateful nod I depart the scene, deciding it is best I do not remain. I retreat to the safety of the kitchen where I can feel him, Rook, eyeing me, through the door. He doesn't trust me. I don't blame him, I find I suddenly distrust myself.

_It's okay, Hal,_ I tell myself, once ensconced away._ Accidents happen. I just lost control, just for a moment. It won't happen again. I won't let it happen again._

_But it wasn't an accident, was it? _A little voice so close to the surface wants to say. I try to return to calm, pouring a glass of water. My hand is shaking as I drink. The water is blissfully cold, but ultimately unsatisfying. Of course it is! Larry has unstoppered the thirst in me again like a flood. I can stick my finger in the damn of it, like the little dutch boy, but I know that it is a sign that the monster is coming. No blood shed yet though, not yet. Perhaps there is hope. I can control this. Can't I? It's fine. I have coping mechanisms! Friends! A fulfilling life! One death does not a disaster make, and..._ he deserved it, didn't he?_ No! No, he didn't. Time was, not long ago, when you wouldn't kill a spider. What would Leo say?

_Leo's dead._

Another glass of water.

"Shit."

Another.

"Bollocks."

Another.

I could do this until I have drained the reservoir, but know that it will do no good. I search for something else. Something stronger perhaps? It's not normally my style, but needs must I suppose. I search the cupboards, the fridge, pantry. A glass of milk? Coffee? Whiskey...A beer? No. None of it will do. I know what I am really looking for. Stop, Hal, stop.

This is not normal. Something is wrong. Stress, Hal, you're just stressed. Talk to Alex. No... clean something first. Alex after, infuriating Scottish ghosts are better after three rounds with the marigolds.

Washing up? All done.

Reordering the tins? All done.

Polish the spoons! Yes! I could...All done.

It must have been coming longer than I have realised this time. I struggle to find something to do that I haven't already addressed. So I pull off my coat and drop to the kitchen floor. Exercise! Vigorous, brisk, exercise! Keep going till your calm, Hal. You can fix this.

"One...Two...Three...Four..."

The door to the kitchen opens and Rook peers inside. I look up from my press-ups with anger. "Is it done?" I ask.

"All ship shape and Bristol fashion," Rook gleams.

"Five...Six...Sev -"

"A werewolf you say?"

"Yes. Eight...Nine..."

"He attacked you?"

"It happens. Ten...Elev -"

"Well. Good. Thank you," he says, clipped, as if I have somehow done Her Majesty's Realm a favour by letting my monster take out its wrath on Tom's 'friend', removing one more werewolf from Her shores.

Perhaps I have? Perhaps this little _a__ccident _will enable me to keep a _worse_ monster at bay... for a while. It it foolish to hope? Or simply deluded? It's morally vapid! How dare I rationalise this? You have just _murdered_ a man. Own up to it! How can I allow myself to get away with this?

_You know perfectly well 'how'._

"Nineteen...Twenty...Twenty-One..."

"I'll be going then."

He's still here?

"Twenty-Two..."

"Of course. Yes. Well, don't hesitate if you need - well - yes. Glad to be of service. Goodbye, Hal."

I stand. Realising it's not working. "Goodbye."

"Do you need...If I can be of any assistance, Hal? Do call. Anytime...Day, or night."

"I just need to be left alone. Bad day," I say.

Rook, with a final glassy stare, and a nod, takes his leave. He extracts the evidence of my misdeeds with him.

The house feels horrifically crowded when he's gone. It closes in on me. I feel an uncontrollable urge to leave. It must be bad if exercise isn't working either. There's only one thing for it. D'Oyly Carte! During the 'dry spell' before last, a short one, admittedly, I learned every song in the Gilbert & Sullivan canon...

"Things are seldom what they seem,

Skim milk masquerades as cream;

Highlows pass as patent leathers;

Jackdaws strut in peacock's feathers.

...Jackdaws strut in peacock's feathers?

...Jackdaws..." My head is empty except for one thought. One desperate need. I can't think. _Just one drink, Hal._

**"NO!**" I lash out. The flat of my palm driving soundly into the fridge with a thud. It rocks on it's feet. I sigh, and then I see it.

Something has fallen from the top of the fridge. It distracts me from my thirst. It's a little frame. The glass has shattered. I can smell old air, peaches, cream, Paris. Something stirs within me, an old memory I can't quite bring to focus. It's curious. I snatch up the frame and stare at it, open mouthed, stumbling a little until I gain purchase on the kitchen work top. I realise what it is.

"Le Papillon Épinglé! How...?" Then I realise what must've happened. "Fucking, Mary!"

A suck of air fills the B&B, and then I see her.

Mary.

With a stake.

I drop the frame hurriedly in order to defend myself. Unable to interrogate her fully about why she has returned the gift I once gave her. I really do have terrible luck with women.

* * *

**Paris, 1955**

I sit in darkness. I wait. Smiling. Truthfully, this will be too good to miss. Her face! I can just picture it. It will be … a picture. I can't stop thinking about it. Really, it's cheered me right up.

I check my watch. I have been here all night. Surely she should be here by now. Richard's mystery woman. The owner of this little Cafe. These places open early, don't they? It's winter. Paris is cold outside. Cats fight upon the cobbles. Cold lights shine through the words upon the door, etching them in red on the tile, 'Le Papillon Épinglé', it reads: The Pinned Butterfly. I light another cigarette, realising I have now finished the whole pack. It is not normal. Something is wrong. Boredom, Hal, you're just bored. Have a drink. No... cigarette first. Drink after, french blood tastes better when smoked.

Of course, there are the moments I get bored, waiting. I drum methodically, musically, upon the cafe table. Patience is not a virtue that I let myself indulge often, nor is it my strong suit. Worryingly I have found myself enjoying these little moments of peace of late. A bad sign. It's a sign that I have become fatigued with the company I keep. That is why I'm here. Richard said it would amuse me.

"Change it up a gear, old man. A change of scenery! Get out! Get about. Try new flavours! You like the French, don't you?" That was what he said.

"Too much garlic," I had informed him blankly, bored even by this very conversation, more interested by the scenery outside of his office. Birds flew past, heading South. Maybe it was a good idea. Aren't there any good wars anywhere? It was a grey day and I was too bloody hungry for this shit. Why do I even care about the weather! What the hell is wrong with me? "It taints the blood," I sigh, put off by the idea. "I just need a drink is all. Bad day." I have found myself going for longer and longer without a drink. It's not fucking normal.

"Take a trip to Paris, perhaps? Check on the investments there. There's a new one, you'll like it. I'll send you someone to cheer you up too. Someone really special. You can stay at my place in Montmartre." Richard, as usual, has chosen to ignore my morose mood, knowing what it forebodes. "You'll be back to yourself in no time. We've caught wind of some werewolves in the area. Tell you what, you pop to the old county, have yourself a quiet little rampage in some village, and when you get back we'll put on a show...just for you."

"What about the kids?"

"Cutler and the others?"

"They can't be trusted with the bar. Bloody imbeciles, the lot of them. I don't know why I bother, really."

"Make some new friends," Richard suggested.

Change it up a bit, he said. Pop to the old country, he said. Make some new friends, he said. He wasn't wrong.

I hate that he wasn't wrong.

But, I feel so much better. My new friends tasted delicious.

'Le Papillon Épinglé' cafe is a new purchase Richard has made for some vampire he's screwing. It's in Montmatre. He's such a tremendous cliche, buying expensive gifts for women as if it will somehow make them love him. He doesn't know what an idiot he is being. It's tragic really. I am certain as we get older I'm sure we get worse when it comes to the 'fairer sex', weaker, more easily led, teased, they twist our elderly feelings around them like cobwebs. Richard is the worst of us both. I keep clear of such things. I lock those feelings away which might make me behave like a buffoon. Even times like now, when I feel the blasted things clawing their way to the surface.

It's better this way. When I let them out people get hurt, hurt in ways that don't mean I'm having any fun.

No.

I keep to one mistress, because she will always be faithful to me and because at least the way she plays me is something we mutually enjoy. Even when occasionally I dally, she knows I always come back to her. I can find her in any port, waiting for me, wet, warm, waiting...not always willing I'll admit. No, Blood is my only mistress. It's better that way. Fuck feelings, I'm thirsty.

I am about to stand to fetch one of the patrons, whom I had earlier locked in the cellar, for a quick bite, when I see a shadow cross the light at my feet.  
I smile. My mistress can wait. I extinguish my cigarette, pick up my hat, dust it off, place it upon my head and wait for the denouement of patience!

The door opens and there she stands in the lamplight, curves and curls; Colette.

"Mon Dieu!" she gasps, seeing me there. I smile, remove my hat, doff it in her general direction and wink, "Bonjour, Madamoiselle Molyneux, a pleasure."

She holds her hand to her chest if that cute little vampire heart might pop. "Monsieur Yorke! Que faites-vous ici ? En Paris? J'ai pensé que vous étiez à Londres?"

"Tu," I correct her.

"Quoi?"

"You should say, 'Tu', Madameoiselle, not 'vous' after all," I find myself thinking of those perfect breasts under all that hosiery, "we do know each other quite well." I take off my hat to greet her and pull myself to my feet. I could have her right now. If I wanted.

Her complaint facade drops, she's not in Le Desir Rouge now after all. "What can you be doing here? This is...it is...you should not be here."

Admittedly, I did not expect this reaction. Richard was sending Colette _would_ be a way to end a perfect weekend away: A little carnage, a little local colour, a little Colette...il aurait été parfait. Clearly that wasn't his plan. Something is not right here. Nevertheless, whoever it was, I did not expect to be received with such outrage. I'm genuinely offended.

She slams the door behind her, "You should not be here!"

"I'm sorry? Who do you think you're speaking to?"

"Go!"

"Go?" I sit again, throwing my hat on the table in exasperation. I fold my arms and wait for her to explain her sudden temper tantrum. "No."

Colette strides into the cafe like a furie. She sees a few of my leftovers behind the ornate brass bar, one or two behind the glass menu board, slumped, bloody-cheeked against yesterday's 'a la carte'.

"How long have you been here, mon seigneur?" she says, her voice returning to that soft, coquettish manner I prefer.

"Long enough. I have to say you surprise me. I thought you would be pleased to see me."

"I am, of course, Mon Seigneur, it is simply...Pourquoi êtes-vous ici ?" she says hurridly, slipping into French in her exasperation.

"I am here because Richard recommended the establishment. He said he would send me...a surprise. I take it he did not mean you."

"Moi! Non, il voulait dire 'L'Dame', merde! Poutain d'idiot!"

"You should be careful what you call my friend, Colette, Richard is a good man. Who is this 'Lady' you say Richard was meaning? Is she one of yours?" I would rather Colette, to be honest, new conquests make me nervous right now, the unknown female can easily pry free those pesky feelings. I don't want anyone around me right now whom that side of me might try to impress with his hope for salvation.

"No-one, mon signior. Shall we..." she begins to unbutton her blouse.

"No, to be honest you've rather pissed on the mood." I eye the cellar again, there's a little maid in there begging for a slow death. "Maybe later. So, this Lady, is that who Richard is toying with these days?"

Colette smiles, "He is besotted."

"And the lady in question?"

"Elle n'est pas intéressée. She loves another. However, your friend is quite...persistent."

"That explains the extravagant gifts then. Why would he send her to me?"

"I don't think he intended you to...enjoy her, mon seigneur."

"Then what's the point?"

"Perhaps, Je ne sais pas...he wants your blessing? Your approval? To gloat?"

"Ha! Gloat?"

"Oui, mon seigneur, she is quite special. A catch. I am quite sure you would like her. His 'Papillon Épinglé'! That was what your friend called her; his little pinned butterfly. Do you see that?" she walks to the bar, strutting her elegant derriere in a manner I know is to draw my attention. She has been talking, but realises I have stopped listening to her words. She coughs, "As I was saying, this little thing, he brought for her from one of his travels." She pulls a frame from the wall. It is small, no more than a few inches square, and deep. Colette saunters to my side, she slides the frame on the brass table. It sits beside the curling remnants of my cigarettes. Inside there is a little dead moth, pinned with a jewel encrusted pin. Under the curious cadaver Richard has scrawled, "_ 'Calyptra R-Turni' for my own B, a rare beauty with equal bite."_

"It is a rare moth, it is vampire you know, like me, like you. Monsieur Turner discovered it on his travels. It is worth a fortune, the only one of its kind. He said such rare things should find sanctuary in each other's company, and he gave it to her. Romantic, oui?"

I didn't know the old dog had it in him.

Colette laughs, "But, no matter, she is not here, she has fled. Her and the ghost. I have searched everywhere." I find her hand upon my collar. She slips her fingers adroitly between my shirt and my neck and leaves her hand there.

"Fled?" I ask, distractedly.

"Oui, this little establishment was for her a paradise, away from vampires, the world. She asked me for help, I introduced her to Richard, we found her this place. I believe she was happy. There was a wolf too I believe." Colette's voice has dropped to a whisper. She slides her other hand beneath my tie and starts to work at the knot.

"Away from vampires?" I ask, staring at the moth on the table. It is lacy, light, pale like silk with flecks of red and black on its body.

"Oui, she tried to put this life behind her." Colette has now succeeded in removing my tie. She slides around and sits upon my lap, slotting against my body like a puzzle piece. "It was...I admit I did not understand. But, she made it sound so noble."

She kisses me. The rest of the conversation is considerably less polite.

The sun is coming up outside the window. We lie on the tile floor smoking Gauloises, the clothes we were wearing strewn across half the cafe. I have never had such amorous intercourse with Miss Molyneux. It's not normal. Usually our association is more...transactional. I find I suddenly distrust myself.

She stands, slides over to the bar and tweaks the dial on the radio. Violent strings pour from the little wire grill and bounce across the brass top in a tinny fashion. The elegant trill of Edith Piaf enters the space.

_"Un grand amour qui s'achève,_  
_Ça fait pleurer tous vos rêves_  
_Et quand tu disais que tu m'aimais,_  
_Mon amour tu le croyais._  
_Bah ! Si ton c ur est bohème,_  
_On n'y peut rien, c'est la vie._  
_On est si fou quand on s'aime,_  
_Ma mie..."_

The place reeks of sex and coffee and blood...It's a pretty decent Sunday morning by all records.

"Well played," I say to Colette as she slides close to me and offers me an espresso.

"I don't understand."

"I'm saying, well played. But you do realise that distracting me like that isn't going to stop me being curious."

"Curious, Mon Seigneur?"

"Yes." I drink the coffee quickly, it burns with flavour. I reach for my vest, after all, such fun cannot last. I have places to be. People expect things of Mr Henry Yorke, "You explained there was a woman, a vampire, here. You failed to tell me what _you _are doing here."

Colette rises to her feet too, handing me my undergarments and trousers. She dusts them clean as she does so. "I told you, Mon Seigneur, I was looking for L'Dame."

"At the very time I happened to be here, waiting to discover Richard's little mystery?"

"Oui."

"You're lying," I threaten, grasping her wrist, pulling her close. "I can smell the act on you Colette, I always have. Don't think just because I enjoy your services, and your tender, pliant manner, that I'm under any illusion as to what you are. You're an actress, a gifted one, and a whore."

Nothing. She doesn't even blink. Her facade is unpiercable. I only wish mine could remain so, but I fear that I am slipping.

"I was paid a visit. L'Dame kept the company of a ghost. She said that another vampire... you... had arrived in Paris, that the sanctuary of their home was in danger and..."

"What?!"

"...she was worried if she came into contact with you that L'Dame, Richard's 'Papillon Épinglé' would, how would you say, fall off the wagon?"

"Me?"

"Oui, Mon Seigneur, after all, who could resist the Great Henry Yorke? You are a vampire no abstainee could help but entertain."

I try to read her features but find little performance there. I smile. I relax. I let her go. She tends to the bruises upon her arm as she fades.

I pull on most of my clothes and eye Richard's gift. "And she's gone?"

"Vanished, the ghost did not know where too, but there was a wolf... he too has gone."

"A wolf. Fucking things. Richard's sorting out a fight for my return. Will you come?"

Colette blushes, "If I am to hide at the back, Mon Seigneur, like some common..."

"I can chaperone you," I say absently, caring little, suddenly, for how it might seem, "You'll wear that green dress. The one that brings out the colour in your eyes."

"Of course."

"This wolf...do we know anything about it?"

Colette shrugs as I collect up the framed picture and slide it in the pocket of my coat. It seems like the right thing to do. Plus it would annoy Richard, and I have to have a little fun. Colette is thinking as I eye up the cellar. Perhaps I could just polish off the remainder of the patrons, for the road, you know?

"He was a musician, I believe, travelling from abroad. He was brave...I believe they met only a few weeks...Leo!"

"What?" I ask, having been distracted by the thought of all that blood below me. I leave my shirt on, wanting to keep it clean.

"Leo," Colette says, "his name is Leo."

* * *

Alex finds me where Tom has left me.

I can feel it coming. I am trying to keep it at bay. The run in with Larry. Nearly loosing Tom. Now Mary's attack. My blood is up. It's coming. Alex sits next to me, seeing I'm shaken. She put the broken frame on he bed. The ancient little butterfly is crumpled into a cracked lump on the paper, half crumbled to dust now it has been exposed to the air.

"Sorry," she says.

I suck up the trial inside me and try to remain calm, "What?"

"For the whole Mary thing. I shouldn't have stuck my nose in."

"It seems to be what you are good at, Alex."

She elbows me in horror, "Oi, Was that a dig!"

I smile, "No...no, it was merely an observation that you have quite an excellent nose for mystery. It was always a mystery to me why Mary had not passed over. Now I know. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

We both look at the broken butterfly.

"She gave that to you, didn't she?" I ask Alex.

Alex looks shiftily, "Aye, well...sort of."

"Sort of?"

"Long story. What is it?"

"A vampire moth, from Malaysia. It was a gift from a colleague to his lover, well, intended over. I took it. It reminded me of..." I stop. Why does Colette keep popping into my mind? "Never mind. It's an old story and not one for today. It's been a long day. Would you mind if it waited. It's no matter now. It's just a dusty old thing that has come to the end of its use."

"Speak for yourself," Alex laughs.

I deliver her a justifyable look of disdain.

"Sorry, but you totally walked into that one. You can be _such_ a muppet sometimes, God!" She smiles, and I find myself thinking of Colette again, all that acting, all those performances. She spent almost every moment we were together trying to be something she thought I wanted.

Alex stands. I stop her, "Colette," I begin, "I wish she could have met you."

"Err... why...I have literally no desire to meet any of your ex's, cupcake."

Alex leaves me. I sit in darkness. I wait. I smile. I can do this. I can beat this. I have Tom. I have Alex. That's all I need. I mustn't stop thinking about that. When it comes again, that feeling that the damn will burst, I just need to think of them. The people I love. It's a good thought. Really, it's cheered me right up.

* * *

**_Author's Note: Thanks to the astoundingly talented KatyNewt for the loan of the delectable Colette Molyneux (of whom there will be more) here_**

**_If you like Colette and have enjoyed this chapter then I recommend all her work, specifically 'Le Désir Rouge' which can be found quickly from a link in my favourites. Also thanks for Seamay for the Richard Turner usage. More of him to follow._**

**_Spon, out._**


	7. Of mysteries in boxes

**Chapter 6: Of mysteries in boxes**

_"Sixteen thousand pounds,"_ Noel Edmunds reports. His manner is so smug that had the show been live Alex would have rentaghosted to the studio and shoved a frog down his pants. That's going on the list.

"What the fuck? That's nothing!" She chooses to scream at the TV instead. Much healthier. "She knocked out two blues in that round, ye tight bastard, NO DEAL!"

_"Oh, I don't know. I mean, sixteen grand is a lot of money, Noel."_

Alex rolls her eyes at the simpering, bleach blonde, thirty-something-trying-to-be-twenty-something. She is perched behind box number twelve in a suggestive tits-out-for-the-lads manner. Seriously, where do they find these people? This one wanted to be a singer, apparently. Her 'interesting fact' about herself was that she'd auditioned for The X Factor seven times and never got in; a fact which Alex considered about as fascinating as wet cardboard.

_"Don't forget, you've still got the fifty and the twenty-five thousand in play,"_ slimes Noel.

_"Yeah, but I could end up with the 1p."_

"The fifty grand is in the box, ye idiot! NO DEAL!"

_"Err, I don't know. Can I ask my Mum?"_

"Oh fe fuck's sake."

_"Of course. Where's Sarah's mum?"_

Alex watches the camera turn towards the audience, in an almost menacing fashion, as a microphone is thrust at someone who was essentially a clone of X-Factor Reject #489,023, 'Sarah' to her mates, only with an extra twenty-five years and fifty tonnes of makeup on top.

_"You're doin' so well darlin' I know how much that money means to you and I'd hate to see you walk away with nothing."_

Do they give these lumps a script? They always trot out the same stuff.

_"I know..."_ says Sarah, nodding.

_"Can I just say…?"_ The camera pans to Mr Number-Six, the one with the ludicrous, green mohican. _"I agree, sixteen grand is a lot of money..."_

"Not as much as fifty!" Alex shouts over him. A light-bulb in the kitchen pops. Alex shrugs, it'll give Crumb something that Hal can make him clean up.

_"Well, I think you should go for it, love, right to the end, you could still have the fifty thousand."_

"FINALLY! Someone who agrees with me, thank you Mrs Number Twenty-one."

_"Ok. Ok..."_ Sarah drums her false nails on the top of her box restlessly before nodding. _"I'm ready for the question now Noel."_

Alex leans forward, gripping the arm of the sofa, chewing her nails.

_"No deal, no deal, no deal,"_ the woman mutters.

_"Sarah,"_ says Noel, _"Sixteen thousand pounds, deal or no deal?"_ Alex holds her breath, grits her teeth, adjusts her agonising bra and waits.  
Finally, Sarah opens her mouth to speak.

The screen cuts to static!

**"WHAT?! NO!"** screams Alex with horror, throwing herself up from the sofa to whack the top of the TV. "Come on! I need to find out if she dealt or not!"

_"He... ex… lo…"_

"WORK!" Alex shouts, giving it one almighty whack!

And it does. But it isn't the delightfully flatulent face of Noel Edmunds that she finds gurning back at her. It isn't even Sarah. It is someone completely different.

"Hello Alex? Can you hear me? Is it working? Hello?"

On the television Noel and Sarah have been replaced by a woman. Alex stares in surprise, hunkering down in fascination to stare at the static crackle of the screen and the face who looks out at her. "Videodrome much?" Alex snorts, "Aye. you mean me, right?"

The girl can't be any older than twenty. She looks out at Alex with vivid sea green eyes, set in a pale face, framed by a mess of mousy brown ringlets that flow down her shoulders to... shit, she is wearing hardly any clothes, just some weird, torn smock like thing. _And I thought my outfit was a bitch_, Alex smirks.

"Sorry, but who the hell are you?" Alex asks. She has seen something like this before, just before Annie kebabed Cutler. Some woman had appeared in the TV and told Annie to let him kill Eve. Alex presumes this must be the same thing, a message from the other side. She does a quick check around about her for mental vampires; not including Hal, of course.

"Oh, good. You can hear me," the tele-ghost interrupts Alex's musings. "I hear there's been a lot of supernatural stuff going on at your end recently. It might be screwing with the signals. It is Alex, right?"

"I asked who _you_ were, love," Alex's eyes narrow with suspicion. After everything that has happened; with what Annie had told her about Lia; then the stuff with the bloody Ghost-baby-lady-whatever; Belinda-flipping-Weaver and the Toaster; The Collector and that shitstorm in Hull; creepy flash-backs and now all the crazy going on with Crumb and Mary and whatever the hell is going on with Hal, Alex knows better than to trust anything supernatural at face value.

"Sorry," the girl smiles "Izzy's fine, I used to go by 'Lady Isabella Fiston', but it's a bit of a mouhtful."

"Yep. Because that explains everything," Alex nods, throwing up her shoulders in a defeatist shurg. The ghost laughs through the cracking static of the telly.

"I can see why he likes you. Christ, he really does know how to pick us, doesn't he?"

"What do you mean? Who?"

"Who do you think?" Izzy smiles again. Her eyes gesture towards the ceiling, to Hal's room, where he is currently teaching Crumb origami.

"Hal! You know Hal?"

"We're very, very old friends."

"Friends?"

"Yes, well, he did kill me but that's water under the bridge now. I forgave him centuries ago."

"This seems to be a trend" Great, another Lady Mary? Then again, Mary didn't really forgive Hal, did she?

"It's a really long story, full of crazy vengeful ghosts, dog fights, dead monks, angry peasant mobs, the occasional horse-related incident. I really don't want to bore you with the details and I should probably get to the point of my little visit rather than babble. I'm not entirely sure how much time I have."

"So?" Alex says, raising her eyebrows and dropping onto her arse, cross legged, ready to be educated. She's used to it now.

"It's about Linny."

Of course. "Belinda-bloody-Weaver?"

Izzy, the telly-ghost, shakes her head in desperation, "Look, I know you've had your differences, or whatever, in the past but you _need_ her. We all do. Hal does. Belinda is important. That's why I got her out from here! You have no idea the amount of strings I had to pull to get that done. And, I mean, sure, I still ended up getting her there at totally the wrong time but none of us is perfect."

Alex rolls her eyes, "You know, I think I've heard more about her since she died than..."

"What?!"

"You didn't know? She shake-n-vac'd herself ninja style. At least Tom and me figure that was what happened, Hal doesn't talk about it and he couldn't have done it, he was detoxing. Anyway, he wouldn't. Not to her. It was a few weeks ago, right over there," Alex explains, gesturing towards the window where Hal and his chair had resided.

"Bugger," says Izzy, frowning. "That means we need..."

The static buzzes again, Izzy drops into fuzz. Alex bangs on the telly like a loon.

"Oh, no! No you don't! You can't just come in here, interrupt 'Deal or No Deal', and then, THEN, at a crucial moment, give me bullshit little cryptic clues like you're the fucking Telegraph crossword!" Alex finishes her rant, as the screen flickers back to Izzy's confused face. Izzy is talking but Alex can't make out her words. She thwacks the screen again. "Need what?" she demands, "Oi, cough it up. Fucking reception. I told them to go digital! 'Ceefax is superior' my arse. Ceefax is dead, long live Google! Shit!" Alex thuds a few times on the television. It's a cheap rental from that dodgy shop on the high-street, but Hal said the 'idiot-box' didn't need to do anything more than switch on to do its job so why crack a fifty. "Cheap bastard." _Thud_. "Shitting," _thud_, "Piece of crap," _thud_, "steam-powered bit of shite."

True, the creepy bloke that ran the shop didn't make any guarantee that the TV would be able to receive signals from alternate spiritual realms without loss of service, but, still. It was the principle. _Thud_.

The sound of thundering footsteps coming from upstairs causes Alex to break eye contact with her visitor. When Alex looks back at the television, _"… find out if you've played the perfect game, if you've beaten the banker. Were you right to deal at sixteen thousand or should you have stuck it out?"_ In one swift move Noel has removed the tape sealing box twelve. He opens the lid revealing,_ "Fifty thousand pounds."_

Izzy is gone.

_"Oh no!"_ moans Sarah before bursting into tears and running over to her polyfilla-faced Mum for a cuddle.

"Told ye!" Alex sighs, slams herself back on to the sofa, totally pissed that this latest curiosity had managed to escape without really telling Alex anything important at all...except that she needed to find someone who was mostly residing in an urn at the back of the cupboard upstairs.

"Hey, Alex, look!" Crumb shouts with excitement, entering the room and throwing himself on the sofa, beside her. He still stinks of sweat from that morning's run.

"I made a duck!" He shows her a little bird, made from burnt-orange paper, cradled in his hands proudly.

"It's not a duck," Hal explains with mock pride. "It's a crane." He follows Crumb into the room, leaning against the bar in that 'way' he does. Alex tries not to seem as if she is staring.

"Well, whatever it is, look, it flaps," Crumb holds the paper bird at the front of Alex's eyes, distracting her obnoxiously. He pulls at its tail. The wings move. It waves its paper limbs like a drunken, half-dead, overly creased from multiple failures, thing.

"Wow, that's…" Alex looks to Hal with a half controlled smile, "Dead brilliant, Ian. I'm impressed."

She pushes Crumb's creation away distractedly, "So, what did you make Mr Miagi?"

Hal's features crease in a confused scowl.

"Hal made a butterfly." Crumb sneers, "I mean, it's a bit gay if you ask me, but..."

"Butterflies are not..." Hal bites his tongue, "Personally, I find them to be very tragic creatures. The Yoshizawa Butterfly is..."

"Yoshiwhatnow?" Alex smirks.

"Yoshizawa," Hal responds calmly, "as I was saying, it's a very elegant fold. Ian will get there in time." He reaches for the note pad on the bar and flips methodically to his notes. "Next on the agenda," he taps his finger on the paper with elation. "Guided Meditation!" he says with the patronising smile of a fifth-form teacher.

Crumb looks befuddled by the whole affair. "Do we have to?" he whines.

Hal taps the list again curtly, "It's on the schedule, Ian. Do you _want_ to be clean?"

"Yeah, I do, but..." he rolls his eyes.

"I did meditation once," Alex chips in.

Hal and Crumb both stare at her in horror.

"You..." Hal looks about he is about to burst into a fit of hilarity, "...you meditate."

"Once."

Ian looks impressed. Hal, less so.

"You?" Hal presses.

"Duh, yeah!"

"I'm sorry, Alex, I don't mean to be surprised it's just you don't strike me as someone who would take the time to..."

"Well I did, so...! Look, I had a life before you, you know! I did shit," she growls. Okay, so in this instance she happened to be lying about meditating, ever, I mean, sitting around thinking about nothing...where's the point in that? But it was the principle that was getting her angry now, the disdain with which Hal was speaking to her. She wasn't like Crumb! She didn't need to be patronised! "Fuck, ye just don't get it, Hal do ye?" She pulls herself to her feet and slams her way out of the room.

"What did I do?" Hal asks Crumb.

Crumb shrugs, "Beats me. Maybe she's on her period...do ghosts get -"

"Fine, let me deal with this, _then _meditation. 100 press-ups till then." Hal interrupts before Crumb embarrasses himself more. He could hear Alex's exasperated yelps at his chauvinistic platitudes as if she was yelling them in his ear. That was kind of what she was going for.

Alex, pointedly slams the door again, just to make a point.

"I really should see what this is about, Ian. Please, we need a harmonious household for this to work."

Crumb groans mechanically, and obliges, rolling onto the floor like a chastised labrador, and trying, painfully to lift himself into a singular press-up.

"One!"

Hal leaves him to it and returns to Alex in the kitchen. She is sitting in a huddled ball at the kitchen table, and is pouring salt out of the shaker just to wind him up. Hal frowns and fetches the dust-pan. "Alex, what's going on, you've been in a foul mood for days. I told you Paris is out of the..."

"I could say the same about you. I couldn't give a fuck about Paris."

"Then what is it?"

"It's you."

"Me?"

"Aye, you, ye muppet, I keep forgetting - like you do it seems - that ...I mean fuck man you're like six hundred."

Hal looks offended, "Five-hundred and twen -"

"Whatever, Brucie, the point is you've had like a life, a massive, long one. And I can't ever know anything about it, but...the thing is, everything since I've been here has all been about you. It's like everything you are, everything you've done, everything, everyone, has consumed my shitting afterlife! And you? You haven't even _asked_ about my life, more than like twice. You don't ask about my brothers, about mum and dad, and that dickhead that two timed me when I was fifteen, and tennis lessons with pervy-Jo, and Amanda Wicks and...ohmygodsomuch. I order four cups of tea and ever since then everything has been about YOU and you don't give a flaming fuck about my life!"

"Alex, I'm sure that's not the -"

"Shutup I'm on a roll. So I give you all these hints and you're like completely oblivious to them. I mention that I meditated and you don't say 'oh that's nice, Alex, tell me about it,' you _assume _I haven't like you know anything about who I am."

"Have you?"

"That's no' the point"

Hal smiles.

"TWO!" they hear Crumb call from the sitting room. Alex tries to calm herself down. She isn't really mad at Hal having a past. She isn't really mad at him not asking about her own. She's not even bothered about having everything her afterlife is about being in some way all about this hot bit of Brit she seems to be latched to like week old gum. She's bothered about something else, she knows, this is about the notches on the bedpost. She's thinking about Colette, and Belinda, and Izzy, and Mary...how many had there been?

"The point is. How the fuck are we meant to ever... Look, so, there was this guy I dated in sixth form called Michael and he really liked me, so we dated, and then I found out he'd screwed _literally_ everyone in the class, the class below...and the class above. Do you know how that made me feel?"

Hal doesn't hesitate to guess.

"No? It made me feel unclean, like one in a long line of inconsequential slots that this kid had popped his quid in to play a game. Unspecial. Unloved. Un..."

"Alex, you could never be -"

She isn't listening, "How many?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Before you took _me_ on a date, how many 'dates' had you had. Roughly speaking," she sneers.

"I can't even -" Hal is angry at the question. He clears up the salt in a blaze.

"HOW MANY?!"

"Alex, I don't know." He dumps the mess away in the bin and tidies away the dust-pan.

She laughs. "Course you don't."

"Alex, please, I need to live in the present. Especially now. If I mull over the past, in any way, it is not healthy. There may have been, I admit, several conquests in my past, but there so too have been an equal number of unrequited affections, and so much more, wherever there has been love there has been even more death, even more pain, more loss. It's not safe for me to think of any feelings I might have had in the past because they are so intertwined with the chaos and terror that comes with it. I don't want to think of any of it. I am trying not to. I am trying to put those thoughts out of my mind. I don't want _you_ to think of any of it. I want to just be the man I am now, nothing more. I need you to stop chasing my past, please."

"No choice, babes, it's coming to me." That was odd, did she just say what she thought she said? Alex shakes off the sensation.

"THREE!" Crumb yells.

"I'm going to see to Ian. Are we done here?"

"Aye," Alex waves him away, "We're done. Piss of back to your rehabilitation, oops, I mean Crumb's." She smiles, letting him know that she is fully aware that this game they are playing with Crumb's routine is as much for Hal as it is for Ian.

"THREE...and a half!" grunts crumb.

Hal hovers in the doorway. "You may think I don't care about your life, but I do. I know you care about things more than you will say. I know you're still scared. I know you miss your mother even though you pretend that you don't. And I know you aren't someone who cannot bare the unknown. Perhaps I have been arrogant enough to think I have learnt to understand you, without the need to press for facts and interrogate every mote of your past like a detective. I apologise for that. But if there's one thing I will not apologise for asking you to leave my past where it is. You clearly have an eagerness to investigate something; be it the loss of your body, or my secrets. But, I beg you, for the sake of us both, sometimes secrets are better left buried. I am sure, because of who you are, in time, that you will uncover all of me. I am simply warning you that it is a Pandora's box, Alex. You aren't going to like what you find inside. And, worst case, you might unearth a part of me we cannot put back."

Alex shrugs. It sounds like a Dealer's bluff to her. There's still a box full of riches on the table, and Hal is asking for her to settle for twenty-quid.

"Promise me, Alex. Please! It won't come to any good."

"Fine, I promise. I promise I won't go looking for it," she says out loud. She just has a feeling the Universe isn't making the same deal.

* * *

**Thanks to the delectable and talented ShoePigeon for her considerable contribution to this chapter and the inclusion of the wonderful OC Izzy. I loved her writing and characterisation in 'Haunting Hal' (find in my favourites) and so I'm so pleased to have been permitted to include her in this story.**

**In other news: Enjoy the show tonight. I'm sure it will be excellent.**


	8. Whispers in the Dark

**Chapter 7 – Whispers in the dark**

Alex doesn't feel well. She hasn't felt well all day. Do ghosts get colds? There's no one there to ask. She's in the hotel, in the dark, trying to keep it together. Bobby, the werewolf, and Tom are rounding on each other in the West block, and Hal has taken Crumb back to the B&B. He'll be back soon. She knows he'll be back soon. Shit, it's going to be awkward, she thinks, after what Crumb implied. But he's right, maybe it's time they just talked about it, them, this...whatever it is. She pulls herself to her feet. She feels oddly dizzy.

_Alex?_ she hears a whisper in the darkness. She turns to see where it came from.

"Ooh," Alex aches suddenly. She tries to hold onto the wall. "That's not..."

The wall slips away from her.

Alex feels like she's falling. That horrible rushing sensation comes upon her, like she used to have in dreams. She is falling off a cliff, from a tree, down a flight of stairs. She reaches out to catch the floor, bracing herself for the pain and ache of the landing, tensing for the thud.

But it doesn't come. She wakes up, out of breath, a cold sweat on her forehead. It's jarring.

A woman sits at the end of her bed. Her room is more ornate than she remembers, or is it, or was that the dream. She can't quite decide.

"There, there, now," the woman ...her mother, yes, her mother...says. "It was just a bad dream, over now."

"I..."

"Here you go," her mother offers her a glass of water. "Have a good sip and tell me all about it." She sidles closer. her mother is beautiful, elegant, serene. She has the neck of a swan, her hair twisted and turned into a plait upon her shoulder.

"There was a wolf, two wolves, and they were fighting."

"Well, that does sound scary, go on."

"And people were in danger, so we shut them away, but I couldn't do anything, not really, to help, because I was dead. I was invisible. No one could see me, I couldn't taste, or smell, or touch, not really."

"My, my," her mother says, genuinely concerned.

"And there was a vampire."

"A vampire?" her mother says with concern. "Now why would you be dreaming about them, have you been reading scary stories before bed time again, Linny?"

"What?"

The glass of water falls from her hand, a small hand, juvenile. She is surprised to see how young her fingers are. The glass keeps falling, it spills water all over the bedsheets, spoiling them, flooding them. She throws herself from the bed, tossing the wet sheets aside and pushing past her mother in a storm. Everything seems so large! Over there, to the mirror, she goes. How does she know where it is when everything seems so unfamiliar? But it is there, in the small, ornate thing that she sees her reflection and is stunned. A young girl looks back, a girl with blue eyes that pierce the night, long auburn hair. Her reflection drives her to terror, but she doesn't know why.

"No. This doesn't make sense. This isn't me!" She turns to her mother...is she her mother? "It's not me!"

"You've just had a bad dream. Don't panic, my love. How about you stay with me tonight? Your father is working later. We can curl up in the master bedroom with a video and some ice cream and talk about boys. What about that nice boy Stuart? I like him."

"No!" She pushes herself in the corner and hugs to herself. "This isn't real I won't believe it." She pinches her arm. "I'm waking up now. This isn't real."

Her mother looks over from the bed in sadness, as if she always expected this to happen, and had only been waiting for the moment. She shakes her head, "Linny, you need to keep calm, please. Don't let your father hear you say things like that."

"Stop calling me that!"

"Well, what else should I call you? You are my daughter after all."

"I'm not. My name is..." What was it now? She had been so sure a moment ago.

"Please, come to bed sweetheart, baby. I'm here for you. You need to get some rest." Her mother holds out her arms, so desperately, with such love, affection. Belinda pulls herself to her feet and runs to her mother. She wraps her arms around her. She is so warm, so comforting. It gives her strength to feel such love, as if she had never had it before.

"There, there," says her mother, running her fingers through her hair softly, rocking her back and forth with affection in the darkness. Belinda curls up close, in a little ball wrapped in her mothers arms. Her mother stands, carrying her with her, cradling her. They pass through the low lit corridors. Her mother sings softly in her ear, the _Humming chorus._ Belinda joins in. They dance through the corridors, mother and plagued child, singing softly. The carpet scuffs gently under feet. Occasionally her mother laughs sweetly, Belinda does too. They spin and chassis until Belinda becomes sleepy again.

"I love you, mummy," she says.

"I love you too, baby."

They reach her parents' room. Her mother lies her down on the bed and smoothes her tears away, tucking her into the opulent quilt. "You won't dream of monsters," her mother says, "not while I'm here. I promise. Mummies are like magic, they keep the evil away. You won't ever have to be afraid, not while I'm here."

Listening to the soft, patient hum from Madam Butterfly. She thinks she hears wings flapping, little lacy wings dancing quietly in the darkness.

Belinda closes her eyes.

Alex opens them.

She wakes inside the hotel. "What the actual fuck!" she says to the daylight. Moments ago it had been dark. She scratches her head, her stomach. She feels oddly sick, hungover. Two voices drip into the haze, Tom and Bobby. Has she been asleep? Was that a ghost dream? Nah...no, but was it though? Nahhh...

_Something isn't right. Something is really not right. _She hears a whisper, she's not sure from where, or from who. It comes from no-one in particular. Why does that make her scared? What the hell is happening. _No time now. Hal needs you. Run, Alex, run! _Shut-up, stupid, you're just being paranoid, Alex tells herself. Hal's fine. She shakes off the strange sensation, nothing weird is happening. Nothing at all. Nope. Not opening that box of oddness, just focusing on the here and now, Tom and Bobby and Hal. That's all. Perfectly normal. Perfectly fine.

_Fine, _says No-one Inparticular.

"Fine," agrees Alex, and rentaghosts into the hotel room to check on the wolves.


	9. Don't look for it, Alex

**Chapter 9 - Don't look for it, Alex. You may not like what you find. **

"Alex!" Hal snaps.

"Alright! Fine. I will drop it!"

"I'm sorry about Bobby, really I am, but this isn't helping anyone," he finished, and with that he stormed off.

What! She should be doing the storming. Storming was totally _her _thing. She'd copyrighted it, sort of. Bobby's dead, Tom's _friend_ is dead...she thought at least Hal would give a shit.

"Pft, _normal_ life, my arse," Alex huffs.

If this was a 'normal life' Alex would be seething angry right now. She can't believe him! Hal, that is. He has a massive go at her about finding something to occupy her time, so she _did_! He tells her he can't let himself feel anything and then he goes and all Casanova on her! What the fuck does he want her to do? She doesn't know whether she's coming or going. _Something's wrong. Fuck, I know something's wrong. Shut up. _

She _needs_ to do this. Christ, _something_. Anything!

Alex has half a mind to storm after him and threaten to dig around in his shit again, just to prove a point, but she knows that is probably a bad idea. The mood he is in now, it wouldn't help matters. He's right about that. It was like dating a teenage girl sometimes the way his tempers flipped about. "Premenstrual fucking vampire tosspot," Alex curses under her breath and huffs into the Reception. She kicks at an umbrella holder with her (bloody great) boots. Whatever! He was clearly having a bad day. She shouldn't have given him a hard time over that kiss. She smiles, thinking about it. It was a very nice kiss. _  
_

Sexy times at 'Honolulu Heights' or no, Bobby's still dead. Should she not care that it doesn't make fucking sense?

Alex returns to the front desk to close up the books she had left lying about earlier. She slips her fingers down the pages. Then she sees it: 'Belinda Weaver', room 42.

"Shit. She _was_ here!" They had gone to check, back when Linny was out cold and Hal was in Hull. How was that possible? Belinda can't have been staying in the Hotel _and_ been at the B&B at the same time. Nah. Something else that made no sense. It was infuriating.

Then, for the first time in weeks, something suddenly makes sense. It hits Alex like a smack on the head.

"OhMyGod. He got to her too? He did! Oh...my...god. What the hell did he have on her?"

Something proper fishy was going on, Alex knew it, and Hatch was at the centre of it. She didn't care what Hal thought.

Fuck him, she was going to investigate. _  
_

Room 42 was on the back corridor. Not that far from Hatch's room, not that the whole numbering system made any sense. Hal tried to explain it to her once but she had blanked out. She rentaghosts inside.

It's just like the rest. Nothing stands out. She looks under the bed. Of course it would have been cleaned since anyone was here, whether it was someone impersonating their friend or not. She wanders around the bathroom; shifting cotton buds as if something might be found at the bottom; checking the talcum powder box; under the bin; in the bin; behind the bin. Okay so there's nothing suspicious about the bin. She checks for hair in the plughole like they do on CSI, then gets on her knees to look for shit on the carpet. Not actual shit. That would be minging. Just, whatever, hair and fibers or blood or something.

Nothing.

"It has to mean _something_," she says to herself and then she spots something out of the ordinary. The painting on the wall. It's not the picture itself that's odd, although the huge, kitch thing that would put anyone off sleeping; but it's grubby as hell and she can swear there's something there, in the light from the window. Something that the cleaners have missed.

She runs into the bathroom and grasps as the old powder puff things that stinks of Lily of the Valley. She doubts any guest has used it in years. She tosses the puff aside and blows the talc at the picture in a cloud.

There it is.

Words.

Plain as you like.

Right there.

A message.

"I knew it!"

_'Hello Alex,'_ it reads.

"Oooookay, _that ..._that right there,is fucking creepy!"

_'If you've found this, then something's gone wrong. I have a plan. Trust me. Stay safe. Keep away from the Captain. xoxo B. __PTO'_

"PTO?" Alex scratches her head. "P...T...PLEASE TURN OVER!"

She grabs the picture off the wall and flips it in excitement. There, tucked in the crack of the picture frame she finds a small fold of red card. It's a matchbook. A little, ancient, matchbook. She flips it over. Curiously. The writing on the front reads 'Le Desire Rouge', there's an address on the back, somewhere in London. No website. No Phone number. This is well old. She opens it to find...nothing. Not one match, just another message.

'_Concentrate, babes,'_ it reads, Belinda's swirling blue handwriting calling to Alex from beyond the grave.

Alex concentrates.

Nothing.

"Shit, come on. This has to mean something. What did Mary say?" Before she had left Mary had shown her a few tricks. Alex had learned that it wasn't just people's memories she could channel, but sometimes objects had significance to. That, Mary had suggested, would explain what happened with the case. She had wondered then if Linny meant Alex to find it, not Hal? With the message on the picture she was now sure of it. What was the matchbook meant to mean? What was she trying to tell Alex? Whatever it was, she knew now she was right about Hatch, something was going on. _Something was wrong._ Did Linny figure it out first? Did he get rid of her because of that? It so, how did he get her to stake herself?

Concentrate.

Concentrate...

Con...Someone behind her laughs. She turns.

Behind her she does not find the dusty abandonment of an unheated Barry Island hotel room. She finds a glorious, dark panelled bar, complete with the obligatory well turned-out cocktail waiter cleaning a crystal glass with the most used tea-towel she thinks she has ever seen. Hal would have a shitfit. She sighs, Hell is totally being stuck in a bar, needing a sodding beer and being bloody dead. She waves her hand through the atmosphere. It is thick with smoke.

"Well, how about that. Superpowers that transport me to a bar. Fucking brilliant. Make mine a Bloody Mary, mate," she mutters in the direction of the oblivious man. Predictably, her request is not honoured. Alex needs a fucking drink. She slumps, thwacking her head on the sticky bar in an 'I give up' manner. Being dead sucks. Turning her head, dejectedly resting her cheek in a wine spill, Alex notices a blonde woman sitting at the other end of the bar, nursing what looks like a whiskey. Alex licks her lips, she thinks of the day her Dad took her to the Edinburgh Whiskey Museum as a 'treat'. He had told Mum he was taking her to the zoo but spent the afternoon teaching her how to 'do justice' to a good Scotch. Alex laughs. She misses her Dad.

Suddenly, a petite girl practically runs past her. She stops in front of the Blonde.

"Colette! Madame Molyneux," breathlessly, the girl addresses the Blonde. "Il est ici!"

Alex raises an eyebrow. _This_ was Colette! "No! Really? Shut The Front Door! Hal, way to make me feel inadequate," Alex grumbles.

The woman, who has been such a fascinating mystery since Hal first muttered her name, rises from her bar stool serenely, unlike her friend, she is unflustered, practically professional.

"Merci," Colette says, smiling at the girl beside her. Her strong French accent reminds Alex of Hal's smooth linguistics at the hotel. She tries not to think too much about that. Best to keep a clear head!

"What the hell is happening?" Alex asks the barman, who continues to clean his glasses until suddenly, as if someone has just told him the Pope has died, he drops the glass. Colette gives the man a withering stare.

"Clean that up, Sam! No mess for this guest please!"

A palpable hush has fallen over the club. Glasses cease to clink. Laughter holds its breath. Eyes turn towards the door as the mysterious arrival approaches.

"What?" Alex asks the dumbed room, "Seriously, Who? I swear to baby Jesus and all the Pokemon and the teletubbies, even the shitty green one, if it's bloody Belinda again I am no' having it! Really...seriously! I'm writing to my MP, or... I don't know, my ghost MP or something. Whatever."

No one answers. No one moves.

Alex cranes her neck but, from where she is standing, she can't see who is coming.

"Fine!"

With a frustrated growl-like sigh and exasperated flap of her arms Alex follows Colette as she strides towards the entrance. The dim lighting and thick clouds of cigarette smoke obscures her view of the newcomers still. They drew nearer. Alex can just make out the silhouettes of five men. Noticeably one of them stands out from the others, his face is partially concealed by a smart fedora, pulled low over his forehead. She is only a few feet away when he finally looks up.

"No! Fucking! Way!...Hal?" Alex stares. He seems to be dressed as Al Capone. "Still, totally beats the tweed."

She comes close to him, closer than he would ever let her in real life, so close she can almost tweak his sideburns. She snaps her teeth at his ear and whispers, "And just a teency bit bloody hot, mate. You are never, ever, going to live this down! I mean...that hat! It's a-fucking-mazing...when this ...whatever...is over, I'm shoplifting you like a million hats. You won't even know where they come from . They'll just appear. I'll deny everything!"

Her amusement is cut cruelly short when she turns her attention to the men behind Hal. Noting one familiar face among them, her smile turns to thunder.

"Cutler!"

The man oils in the shadows, like a bad fart.

"Seigneur Harry, what a pleasure to see you again," Colette smiles at him warmly.

Alex wants to claw at bloody Cutler's snively little face, she swears a thousand insults, taunts a thousand taunts, curses a thousand curses. It does no good...plus the whole Colette and Hal interchange is horribly distracting.

"Madam Molyneux," Hal replies with a curt smile, taking Colette's hand and kissing it politely. Alex pouts when his act catches her eye. She concedes to leave Cutler alone, for now. She thinks she sees a brief frown of concern slip through Colette's perfect smile when he kissed her. What was that about! Nevertheless, if she did, the woman had recovered herself quickly. Quicker than Alex had done at any rate. Hot French Ex: 1, Dead Scottish Bird from the Future: 0.

"Shall we?" Colette asks Hal. She gestures, demurely, towards the interior of the club with a winning smile.

"Certainly," Hal says and proffers an arm for her. Colette takes his arm, hanging on him in a way Alex is sure any man would love. Even Hal! He leads her a few steps forward before turning back to Cutler and the others.

"Stay out of trouble," he threatens, "I mean it." The way he speaks gives Alex the shivers.

"Jesus Hal, nice to know you're not just a moody bastard with us," Alex mutters to herself, to try and pretend that seeing her friend like this doesn't completely terrify her.

Hal and Colette walk past her, towards the main stage. There is moment when Alex hesitates. It feels strange to want to follow, intrusive, voyeuristic to an extreme that Alex would not contemplate in the real world. It feels as if she is watching two complete strangers, not just one. Perhaps it is because Hal is such a private person, to be able to watch him like this feels...wrong.

The feeling is fleeting.

In a moment Alex swallows what little pride she has left and follows, screwing her nose up as Cutler passed only inches from her with Hal's other cronies.

"Wanker."

She catches up with Hal and Colette at a heavy varnished door to the side of the stage, which lead to a lavishly decorated office. Alex finds herself inside just before the door is closed behind them.

"So, Mon Seigneur, how was your trip? I trust Monsieur Snow is well?" the French woman asks.

Hal wanders over to a nearby coat stand. He removes that snappy fedora and jacket in silence. Colette, clearly more patient than Alex could ever muster, waits for him to speak but , this time , Alex plainly sees her frown. Alex wonders if Hal's behaviour is out of the ordinary somehow. Colette seems to hesitate. Hal's silence is unnerving her. Truthfully, it's freaking Alex out too but for completely different reasons. She has quickly fathomed this is the man her Hal is so afraid of, the man he was before, the foreshadowing of who he might be if they fail him. Seeing him this way makes her feel a little sick.

Eventually, more awkwardly than Alex is sure Colette intends to be, she approaches an ornately carved drinks cabinet.

"Would you like a drink perhaps, Mon Seigneur?" she asks, already pouring a glass of blood from a crystal decanter.

Alex watches the blood slide into the sherry glass with a viscous glug. She can't help think of her own blood, and how Cutler had syphoned it off. Was there someone in Colette's basement stung up like she had been? That, there, in the glass, came from someone like her. Someone now dead. She eyes the contents suspiciously as it passes from Colette's elegant hand to Hal's. Unconsciously she finds herself trying to will it to spill, or smash, or...something! Anything. _Please don't drink it, Hal_, she prays.

It's no use.

Hal snaps the glass from Colette angrily and downs the blood in one mouthful, unhindered by Alex's attempts to thwart the act.

After all the struggles they had faced keeping him clean the sight of him drinking so willingly...it feels horribly like she has lost the battle and the war in one thud to the stomach. Alex closes her eyes, "It's not real," she sighs, "not like anymore, anyway, it's okay. Hal's okay now. He's beating it."

"I take it it did not go well then," Colette adds, as Hal takes his handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the corners of his mouth. He didn't even say thank-you. And after all the fucking lectures on politeness! Alex grimaces. "Oh, you are so not, giving me the 'Politeness Poem' treatment again, you hypocritical -"

"No it did not," Hal mutters, interrupting Alex's tirade.

He pours himself another drink and downs that too. Alex folds her arms in anticipation of the disappointed stare she'll give proper Hal when she sees him next.

"Well, you are here now at least, Mon Seigneur. Perhaps I can take away some of your distress?" Colette saunters towards him, takes his glass and put it back on the drinks cabinet. She places his hands on her hips and draws herself close to him.

The act causes Alex to choke on her tongue, "Well this isn't awkward at all."

"Why so tense, Mon Seigneur? I'm sure we can think of a way to relax you," Colette purrs, loosening his collar and tie to kiss his neck.

"Once or twice!" Alex spits in shock, recalling Hal's throwaway assessment of their relationship. "She's a bloody...Hal she's a total hussy you dirty bastard!"

Hal closes his eyes and, for a moment, Alex isn't sure if he is going to kiss the petite French woman or kill her. Both she and Colette wait, half fear, half excitement.

His reaction shocks them both.

Suddenly, almost violently, Hal pushes Colette backwards. Alex has to jump out of the way as the french woman flies towards her, crashing into the wall with a painful jolt to both her and the nearby furniture. Something falls from a shelf and smashes upon the table, it distracts Alex but her attention soon returns to the woman when Hal seemingly attacks her. He is on her in a second, but to Alex's horror, Colette meets his lips willingly.

"Oh! No! Fucking No! I am not standing here watching you shag _anyone_, Hal! There is no fucking way! That's just...shit...I mean...it's just mortifying!" Alex shouts, as if he can hear her. Yet she seems to not be taking her eyes away. It's like a weird, horny car crash that she can't stop watching. Was this how _that_ kiss would have ended for her?

She's finally about to turn aside, when Hal pulls himself away suddenly. Alex sighs, her shoulders relax in relief as Hal steps back a few paces away from Colette.

"Yes, that's it," Alex claps, "no Franglais Vampire babymaking today thank you very much, love!"

But Hal is quiet again. It's...odd. Odder than Alex has come to expect from the Hal _she _knows, let alone this one.

Alex sits beside Colette, they both watch him a moment. He opens his mouth to say something but stops, instead moving to sit on the edge of a large desk on the other side of the room. Alex is used to seeing her friend struggle for words, but this is different. There is no awkwardness to him, nor the need to physically stop himself from saying something he thinks might be taken as offence. No, this is bad. Hal is...Fuck, she doesn't know! She can't read this man. He could be anything, hungry, sleepy, pissed-off, constipated...

"I know it is not part of our arrangement that we converse as friends," Colette says sweetly, "but I hope you know that you can confide in me if you wish. Whatever you say it will not leave this room." She redresses herself adeptly, moves away from Alex to sit on the desk beside him.

"Do I seem tired to you Colette? Have I seemed so the last few times we've seen each other?" he asks, somehow managing to uphold an air of arrogance despite the nature of the question, as if his suggestion should be considered laughable.

"Non. Not that I have noticed, Mon Seigneur, not until tonight."

Hal acknowledges that he is not acting himself with a roll of his eyes. "Monsieur Snow disagrees," he sighs sarcastically. "When I arrived, he told me it had been reported to him that I was 'growing tired'. He helpfully informed me I needed something to, and I quote, 'pep me up'. He..." He stops again. That's when Alex realises what this is.

Big Bad Hal is _afraid_.

"He showed me something," he finishes.

Alex moves closer so that she can hear more clearly, confident that no more groping was on the cards, at least for now.

"What was it, Mon Seigneur?" asks Colette, with interest. It's strange, the whole time Alex has seen Colette with Hal it felt false, like a perfect performance they both enjoyed, but now, for the first time Alex sees a little of the performer creep through. There is something honest about her interest, or, more particularly, her disappointment when Hal waves her question away and pulls himself onto his spatz. He strides to the drinks cabinet with purpose and pours himself a full brandy glass of blood. Lifting the brimming goblet to his lips he finishes the supply in a few gulps.

This is what it looks like then; her friend, thirsty. Barely a minute seems to pass without that shit in him. No wonder fifty five years feels so long for him. If it's the last thing she does she'll keep him dry. She knows that in her stomach now.

"It doesn't matter," he growls into the bottom of the glass. It doesn't take Inspector Columbo to know he is lying. Whatever it is..it mattered. "He wanted to give me something. A gift, he called it." Hal smirks, as if this is the most hilarious joke.

"A gift?" Colette questions.

Hal looks up from his glass, then to the empty decanter, then back at Colette. "I refused it."

Alex can tell by both of their expressions that this had been a bad idea. From what Alex remembered of the man 'refusal' wasn't something he took lightly. Colette seemed to agree, she stares at Hal in horror, shaking her head.

"What was it?" she asks.

Hal snaps, "It's of no consequence what it was!" Alex and Colette watch as Hal's knuckles whiten. They cannot tell whether he is going to throw the glass, smash it between his fingers, or into Colette's pretty face.

Finally his control cracks. Colette becomes visibly tense, afraid, but Hal doesn't lash out. It's a response which shocks them both. He takes a shaky breath, and turns away to rest his forehead against the cabinet.

Colette's fear has turned to worry. She doesn't seem to know what to do. Alex can totally sympathise. Hal was unpredictable enough at the best of times, let alone clearly-unnerved-evil-gangster-Hal. For once, the ghost was glad she was just a casual observer.

Colette, cautiously, with care, finally stands and walks over to him.

"Mon Seigneur, you are shaking," she says and rests a hand on his back with the hesitation of a woman unused to dealing with Hal in this way. He flinches away and fixes her with a glare that send shivers down Alex's spine.

"I swear, Colette, if you tell anyone of this I will personally rip your fangs from your mouth and burn this place to the ground!"

"Mon Seigneur, I will tell no one. You know where my loyalties lie," Colette answers without so much as a hint of fear. Alex has to respect her for that. Hal can be bloody scary when he wants to be!

He nods, walks over to the coat stand, and snatches his clothes hurriedly, barely stopping to tidy the buttons on his shirt. He is clearly planning to leave as silently as he arrived.

He turns for the door, not looking Colette in the eye.

She stops him. "Wait, Mon Seigneur, s'il vous plait? The gift. Please...What can it have been to worry you so?"

He stops. Alex doesn't expect him to answer, Colette too by the sound of it. She has asked out of care, not curiosity, Alex can see this in her features, all pretence has dropped and she can see how much this woman actually likes Hal. That means the pretence is for his benefit, not hers. He won't answer. This Hal doesn't give a shit about Colette, Alex can tell, he just uses her. She is a thing to him.

They are both surprised when, with his hand on the door handle, something changes in him. Something makes him tell her, honestly, without facade, what is troubling him. He turns to her briefly. And Alex sees her Hal in his smile.

"The future," he says with half a laugh, and then leaves. "Goodnight, Colette," he passes back at them, returning to his loutish cohorts and the pleasure to be found away from the fearful man he has left behind.

Alex follows, pushing thought the door only to find she is standing in the Hotel corridor again. The bar is gone, the matchbook in her hand.

"Shit!" she says, talking to the matchbook as if it is capable of a response, "What's that supposed to mean, Linny? Why the hell did you show me that?" She shoves it in her pocket and eyes the door to Hatch's room. That dickhead has something to do with all of this, she knows it. She can feel it in her...ectoplasm? _Oh shit, I'm ectoplasm,_ she groans. But the message Linny has left inspires her. Maybe that's what was on Hatch's wall, another message? It couldn't be from her, could it? No. She's going in his room. That's what is going to happen.

Come what may she's going to get to the bottom of this sodding mystery...then she's going to buy Hal a hat.

* * *

**This chapter is a true collaboration between myself and KatyNewt. Thank you Ms Newt!**


	10. All Roads Lead to Cochabamba

**Chapter 10 - All Roads Lead to Cochabamba**

_Meanwhile in Bolivia_

The wheels of the small, private jet barely kiss ground before the prevalent heat of Cocha presses down upon Richard. His skin prickles in the swelter.

_Ah... heaven._

Maintaining a London presence remains a necessary commitment for vampire financier and general man-about-town, Richard Turner, even if he is rarely there these days. The months leading up to the Old Ones' scheduled war had him scurrying like a jetsetter. Ever since that went down the toilet things have been a little crazy. If only he could have gotten a hold of his bastard partner, he could have extended this sojourn, but no such luck. He has been in desperate need of respite, and time for the warmth to sink into his old bones. It has not been long enough. The remainder of the season would have been pleasant. It is such a shame.

Alas, the shit had hit the proverbial, and there is business to do.

Richard steps from the plane into the bright morning. His brogues hug to his feet in the heat. He takes a moment to loosen the laces, before donning his hat and squinting at the expanse of blue sky from beneath the brim. The burning sensation from the sun has dulled dramatically with age, but it is nonetheless prevalent at the lowest layers of his flesh. He finds it pleasant now. Old age has some perks.

A car waits for him, it has been sent for him; a recently homologated, charcoal grey, Flying Spur. The Bentley gleams in the daylight as his driver, a broad faced _originario_, cracks open the door with a pleasing pop. Richard sighs. He needs to enjoy this luxury. If things don't pick up it may be his last opportunity to indulge for a while.

He blames the humidity for making his shirt stick to him, underneath his lightweight suit jacket, before he has even touched sole to tarmac; not the nervousness of impending international bankruptcy at all. Not that.

Richard grasps for an old handkerchief in his pocket. He shakes it in the air and then dabs the sweat from his brow, noticing the initials only out of habit. "B.V.W." He laughs. He had forgotten he had it. He smiles and stuffs the old thing back in his sleeve.

The driver takes Richard's bag and opens the rear passenger door, bidding him inside. The car has been idling with the air-con on; a standard gringo expectation. Richard slides onto the cool leather and sighs with exasperation. When the driver returns, pulling himself in behind the wheel, Richard rolls down his window. "Apague el aire acondicionado de mierda!" he orders.  
He is cold enough already, right down to his soul. As instructed, the driver knocks off the air, allowing the humidity to ooze inside once more.

The driver is accustomed to Richard's kind. He doesn't even bother with acknowledging Richard in the rear-view mirror as they pull away from the tarmac.

With his sleeves rolled back, and his elbow on the window ledge, Richard drops his sunglasses over his eyes. He lets the warmth wash over him like warm silk, as they begin the lengthy ride up through the valley, into the mountains. He is hungry, at least breakfast would be waiting at their destination.

The journey is uneventful and pleasant, except for one thing. Memories. The heat brings Richard's nostalgic side out. They have nearly arrived when he finds himself turning over the damp kerchief in his hand. He draws his thumb across the stitching there. It's funny. He has found himself mulling over the past more these days. Everything has changed so much. He smiles, recalling his last encounter with Mr Snow, and the gift he had given him.

"It needs looking after," Snow had said, flippantly, "You came highly recommended."

"What is it?" Richard had asked. He was trying to be as reverential, and respectful as possible. Snow had smiled, an all brown grimace of glee.

"Come with me."

They had been in Bolivia then too, but it was winter, Richard had been summarily summoned out of the blue. Of course, he rushed to heed the call. He hadn't expected to fly home with what he had.  
Snow had taken him down to a basement. It was normally where they kept the humans required to sustain the appetites of the Old Ones who paid court. Snow elaborated lackadaisically as they walked, "It arrived on the doorstep a few months ago. We didn't know what to do with it. We ran a few tests. We're done with it now. I heard you liked rare things, were a collector. You're going to look after it for us, Richard."

When he opened the door to one of the cells, and ushered Richard inside with a loose wristed gesture, Richard hesitated. He knew then that he could easily wind up a captive himself, it wasn't unheard of for vampires out of Snow's favour to end up in such a situation. In the brief moment at the door he ran through his mind all the possible deviances which might have caused him to worry. Nothing sprang to mind, and so he had proceeded within. Snow too, remained at the door. It was an action that had surprised Richard, unnerved him. He had peered into the darkness, searching for whatever Snow had been referring to.

Then he had seen it, two little pools of red blinked at him through the darkness. He took an immediate step back.

"You've got a demon down here!" It was insanely dangerous, they were rare, powerful, mysterious. Of course Snow would keep one in his basement.

"No," Snow has corrected Richard, surprisingly excited for one so often deadpan, "It's something different, something new. Mostly vampire we think, but fascinating nonetheless."

"You should kill it," Richard said.

Snow had not been impressed. "If I had wanted it dead I wouldn't have invited you here. We want it protected. For now."

"Why?"

Snow hadn't answered. Richard knew he had overstepped the boundary of protocol. His job wasn't to question, it was to comply.

"You want me to take it?"

"If you wouldn't mind." He was not being polite. It was an order.

"I...is it dangerous?"

"Not right now. It was, very, but we put a stop to that, didn't we?" he spoke into the darkness, at the thing. His voice hung in the air, thick, hypnotic and sly. It was then that Richard first had first seen this 'demon' properly. It wasn't an 'it'. It was a 'she'. As if Snow's words had demanded her presence, she had pulled herself into the light from the door. She was a blue eyed now, but there was an absence in her eyes that left Richard cold. Looking at her it was like looking into an empty thing, waiting to be filled up.

"Where did she come from?"

"We don't know. It took a while for Wyndam to get anything out of it. What were learnt was...enlightening. We have covered the full gamut of techniques, but can get no further. We thought perhaps a more…" his tone bristled at the idea, "…personal touch might elicit a better response."

"Me?"

"We tried Hal first, but he's not going to be suitable. I think one of his funny turns is coming on. We need someone reliable, a stalwart, someone with no political games they want to play… and a conservationist. Are you going to refuse me, Richard?"

How could he have?

"What's her name?"

"Oh," Snow had said, turning to leave, "We call it 'The Butterfly'."

"Why?"

Snow had shrugged, "Oh, something Hal said when I showed him our little find. It terrified him. He said not to trust it, or anything it said, the Devil was playing games." Snow had laughed, recalling his protege's words with amusement, "Hal said that _'an exquisite thing, a small thing could upset balances and knock down a line of small dominoes and then big dominoes and then gigantic dominoes, all down the years across Time.__"_ When he refused to take it I said I would have it disposed of he said '_ Killing one butterfly couldn't be that important!_ _Could it?'_ It was something from a book he read." He had sighed.

"He should read less," Richard said with a roll of his eyes. "It rots the appetite."

Snow had laughed.

And that was how Richard ended up returning home with the delectable Belinda Weaver in tow.

Her initials are burned on his memory. He had given her the monogrammed set when she had finally told him her name. They had been left behind when she ran away. In hindsight he probably loved her a little too much. Snow hadn't forgiven Richard for 'loosing' her. He had pretended to care that it mattered what Snow had thought, it didn't. His heart had broken. It hadn't healed still.

He suddenly feels hungry again.

The causeway to the estate is paved smooth after a hidden turnoff, and leads up up into the mountains. It is an expensive rarity in these parts, where roads are nigh impassable at times and the jungle creeps in overnight to obstruct the marks of man. After several miles, the drive ends in a bountifully gardened circle. A stone fountain in the middle sheds the birds, which drink from it, in a cloud, as the car approaches.

The Villa appears to be closed and unoccupied, its windows and verandas are shut. There are no ethereal curtains billowing, and no sound except for the screeching breath of the jungle beyond. Richard steps out of the car and climbs the terrace of the main entry. His valet follows with his bag.

To Richard's surprise the heavy door opens at their approach without the need to announce himself. Instead of being greeted by a human member of the staff, as had been the custom, Richard is met with the scowling countenance of Snow's last werewolf; a man he has only ever known as 'Milo'.

He takes a step back in surprise. He did not need to be invited in, he had been already, but was a little surprised to see such a creature darkening the doorway of this estate. Hetty wasn't known for her kindness to dogs. She must have some use for him. Judging by the little vials of blood the beast had strapped to himself, it isn't difficult for Richard to realise that Hetty has taken him on as a bodyguard.

Richard holds out his hand and puts on his winning smile. The werewolf does not take the offer.

"You're Turner then, eh?" His voice is gruff, accented. "Nice trip?" he snarls and steps aside, allowing Richard and the driver to pass.

Hetty is waiting for him in the atrium, dressed without her child-like pretense in a simple light dress, spattered with the blood of the tenants. She meets him with a smirk, picking her teeth.

"Buenos dias, Dicky" she smiles and offers her hand. He bends down, pressing his knees to the cold marble in order to kiss her fingers. He knows it always makes her laugh, but, this time her laugh is hollow, stunted. Her smile does not quite meet her eyes. "Your travel was good, then? Did you eat on the way?"

"I didn't take the time to stop for breakfast. Where is everyone?" Richard asked, meaning the staff, aka the blood supply. The wolf had already slunk off somewhere, leaving them, "You've been gorging yourself Het, you'll get fat."

"Pre-pubescent bodies have their benefits old man. I can stuff my chops till I burst and it metabolises straight through. I can offer juice or..." she cracks out an impressive carafe of full of blood. "I think this was the gardener.".

There's no need for debate. Hetty pours him a glass and offers it to him, "Jose was the near last of 'em, though, I'm afraid." Richard takes her offering with a raised eyebrow. "Our network has a bit of a lag at the moment." she explains with a sneer.  
In lieu of answering, Richard takes a hearty drink. Much of their world had yet to recover after the unexpected loss of the Old Ones. Cochabamba, their previous seat, wasn't the only system down. "You want to get settled in then? You can have the back room."

"No, no." Richard finished off the glass, "You know me. Business first," and he smiled.

"Oh, fuck. I knew it. What the shit's happened now, then?" Hetty spits, dropping civility. "I knew you wouldn't have trekked out here in person for a lark."

Richard shrugs to try and play down the severity of the situation. He coughs, finishes his glass of Jose and begins as he had practiced. "So it happens that several of the firm's investments were made according to the expectation of world-wide chaos. We're now lacking in said chaos. So..."

"We're fucked, then?" Hetty poured herself another glass without offering Richard a top-up.

Richard tries to calm her, taking a seat at the table near by and setting his hat and shades aside. "Not necessarily, Het. You know me. I can turn it around. I just will need a small influx of capital."

Hetty yanks a chair aside and plops inelegantly onto it, crossing her legs and finishing the decanter without the need for the glass. She leans close and glowers, nursing the carafe like it's mother's milk. "Small? Size matters, Dick. How small?"

Richard can see Hetty's eyes narrow. He errs on the side of honesty, "Oh - just a few...million."

Hetty sighs, crosses her arms and leans back. Then she arches her face to the ceiling and barks out a laugh. "What do you need me for, then? Just steal it from the ass-hat who got us into this mess."

"Hal?" Richard retorts with amusement, "I already did! Who do you think was our primary investor? He doesn't know, of course." Richard sighed, "but yeah. That vein is tapped and dry."

Hetty pulls a poutish face and shakes her head. "Well, sucks to be you, then?" Suddenly her eyes widen with an idea, "Oh! You should get that shit loony-Linny left for him back in the sixties. He obviously hasn't found it. We'd be sorted, mate!"

"Excuse me?!"

"Belinda. You remember her don't you? I had to scoop her out of New York after she...oh fuck you don't know. I thought you would know, after all, you did wuv her, didn't you Dicky?"

"What the hell does Belinda have to do with Hal? He didn't want anything to do with her!"

"Doesn't mean she felt the same Old Man, why do you think Snow approached him in the first place?"

Richard cannot fathom, he never could. Hal would never have taken on the responsibility of something like Belinda, Richard had known that as soon as he had seen her, regardless that he was at a flakey moment in his life.

"No, why?"

"Wyndam and Snow, that was all they could get out of her back at the beginning."

"What?"

"His name, she just kept saying it over and over. Then there was all that stuff about Barry."

"What!"

"Why do you think we went to that shit hole in the first place? I mean...Wales! Who starts a cocking apocalypse in Wales!"

"I didn't think to question..."

"Snow was prophecy obsessed. Linny seemed to have something prophetic about her. In one of her raves she implied that the Apocolypse would start there. Snow fucking loved that. I thought it was hoo-har but what does that matter. When I fetched her she wouldn't behave without us paying that fucking place a visit. I mean, had I known then I'd nearly end up dying there because of Hal's fucking moodswings..." Hetty swigs at the rest of her glass. "I bet Snow felt like a right spaz when he realised their fucking Flutterbye was actually gone in the head and it was all bullshit. Why do you boys always fall for the serious nut jobs. Jeez. Well, at least she was good for something. Just go to Barry, get her shit and fix the problem"

"What the hell did she leave him?"

"A fucking mess I had to clean up again that's what. I'm sure as shit glad we haven't seen hide or hair of that one. Woman was queer as tits on a frog. I don't care how good of a fuck she was. Seriously question your values sometimes."

"Hetty!" Richard shouted. She just laughed. "What did she leave for him?" What he wanted to say was 'why didn't she leave something for me'. He had tried to find her. He had spent years, and of course there had been rumours about her whereabouts. All this time! Had Hal known about her? Had something happened between them after all. Fuck the case, he wanted to face his old friend just to ask him about that.

"Don't get your panties in a wad, Dicky. I'll give you the address. Course, it does mean you have to go to fucking Wales, but, you don't mind that do you? A bit of rain will do you the world of good."

* * *

**Thanks to the Saemaeific Ms Saemae for the wonderfulness of her input to this chapter, you are awesome, I loved her portrayal on Richard Turner in her epic fic 'Walking with a Ghost' ( find in my favourites) and everything about her writing!**


	11. Crying over split milk

**Chapter 11 - Crying over split milk**

Pictures fly into odd angles, skewing themselves dramatically on their hooks. Light bulbs don't pop, they shatter, sending little sprays of glass onto the dowdy carpet like rain. The vases on reception tables topple, spilling cloudy flower-water over old magazines. It sops into curling mills & boon novels, and washes the cork tiled coasters, depicting _'Barry - for varied enjoyment - the bracing South Wales resort'_, onto the floor. Papers fly from the front desk in an explosion of white in the darkness. The fish tank seems to boil.

Alex storms through the hotel in a rage, leaving Hal on the waterfront, hoping she never has to look at him again. Tears stream from her cheeks. She thumps her elbows into the wall. "Bastard!"

Her clothes feel tight and the space feels small. She wants to scream.

_How dare he!_

A window in one of the internal doors rattles uncontrollably and then breaks. She kicks at the door to the kitchen, it flies away from her, making violent contact with a work bench behind. The kid on late night kitchen duty jumps from his slumber in horror and scurries away as Alex stomps into the metallic space, upturning a few tubs of marie-rose sauce in the process. The worktables push aside, shutting the way and allowing her peace for a time. She doesn't think about the guests, or any humanity in the vicinity. She just needs to vent before she can face Tom. She will have to be strong for him. That will come, but right now she needs to tare down the bombarded wall before she can build it back up again.

She pulls at her hair as if she wants to rent herself in two. She wipes at the dead tears, only to find that her wrists are dry but the tears keep falling. Words fail her, her brain is too full of anger and resentment and anguish for anything of eloquence to come through. For the first time in her entire existence alive or dead, she literally cannot bluster her way out of how angry she is. She wants to stomp a hole in the world.

Is it that Hal is drinking blood again that hurts so much? Is it that he didn't tell her? Is it that deep down she _knew_, and had she seen the signs and chosen to ignore them? Is it that she saw him with another woman, not in a dream, or in a memory, but here, now, in fucking Barry; **HER** Hal; her, clean, try-hard, Hal...with his sasanach fucking face buried in Natasha's thigh!

And he has the audacity to rationalise it, as if it was okay! As if he was doing it to save himself! To save _them_ from his fucking failures!

The door to the fridge swings open and slams shut. The flames rage from the hob. The alarm on the oven beeps uncontrollably. Cutlery flies from drawers, sliding across the floor, piercing the walls. The taps turn on. They whisper and groan, spitting out the curses her mind cannot form, they pour out like bile.

Alex doesn't even notice.

It hurts.

God, it hurts.

She curls into a ball and clutches to her jacket as if to squeeze the pain out of her like a sponge. She wants to take hold of her soul and rinse it out of all the emotion. She wants to take all that love that has built up and wash it away. She wants to tare the memory of what she has seen, and how much of an idiot she has been, and all that she feels ...and... and...

The milk explodes in the fridge, whiting out the glass like emulsion.

She really won't really stake him if she sees him again. She wants to, but only because she can't end herself, and she'd rather do that that than look at him again. Every time she sees him now that's all she will picture, that look of horror in his face when she found him; like a little boy caught with his prick in his hand. That was _him_. That was the _real_ him. He wasn't the suave man from 'Le Desire Rouge', nor the sweet man who had been living in their house all this time; all those faces were just window dressing, adorning the thing underneath, making it seem attractive to whatever is near. But it wasn't attractive; it was base, pathetic, unpleasant. It is something that sneaks about in darkened rooms feeding itself rather than admit he's a fucking fraud. 'How long till you're the one holding the stake,' that's what Mary had said. 'He's a very good liar,' she said. Too right. You're an idiot, Alex!

And ohmygod she has saved him, time and time again! She has covered for him! She has loved him. She has listened to his bullshit. 'It's not what it looks like', 'The monster did it', 'Fighting it every day'...No! No more lies. It wasn't the monster. It wasn't ever an accident. It's not an addiction. It's just who he is.

She closes her eyes and tries to will the image away, the memory. Maybe, she thinks, if she tries hard enough she can just drift away, become smoke, nothing, part of the Universe. Then she won't have to think about this; feel about this; hurt about this.

Where's a fucking door when you need one? If she could just go now, she would. Fuck the lot of them. She would go join the 'choir invisibule', get a full on angelic hoard to come down here and sing 'Reach for the Stars' into Hal's bloody ears until he staked himself.

The milk pools beneath the fridge, flooding across the brown tile in a wave.

Alex doesn't realise, but she has started to drift. The anchors weighing her down have been let free. The desire to shut away all that hurt has worn away at her. She is breaking herself apart.

Then she sees something, beside the fridge. Something strange. Something different.

The milk which was pooling there takes a detour, it rounds something, leaving four distinct voids in the white. Two pointed triangles, beside each other. Two small circles behind. She stares at them. She rubs her eyes. Suddenly she feels very present. It is dark, with the lights out and only the bluish glare from the fridges casting shapes in the room. But there _is_ something there! She's not imagining it. They are foot prints. Or, more appropriately, heal prints... in the milk.

"Hello?" she asks, her voice is cracked as if she has been screaming. Perhaps she has been, everything from the last few minutes seems dulled down, distant.

Something steps out of the milk. The voids left in the white flood fill and vanish. Two more appear, little milky prints move towards her. She hears it approach, slowly, clacking and clicking upon the tile. She knows what it is already but, as it nears she seems to see it clearer. It is as if the closer to Alex it is, the more solid and real it becomes. And then, there I am, standing in front of Alex.

"Hello Alex," I say softly, as full of kindness as I can muster.

"B...Belinda?" Alex stutters in horror. She can barely speak, the words her throat are still choked with anger and tears. "No! How? Y...You...? How can you be _here_? This isn't real I won't believe it." She pinches her arm. "I'm waking up now. This isn't real."

I shrug and sits beside her. "Are you okay, babes?"

Alex opens her mouth to speak. "I..." her mouth buckles, useless to her. Nothing but heartfelt sobs follow. She shakes her head. "Hal...he..."

"It's okay. I know."

My arm wraps around Alex. It holds her tightly.

I know how long it has been so long since anyone has held her like that. It feels so real to her, so different to when the boys touched her, so solid. Eventually, Alex lets herself be held. We stay there a while, until she just lets it go. All that anger, rage and sadness seeps out of her like hot air. She relaxes, deflates, lets all the tension and hurt blow away. She feels like she did in that dream, the one where she felt like me. I hum, rocking her slightly, like my mother used to do for me. "There, there, babes," I says. "It'll all be okay."

The staff go about the hotel. They right the angles on the pictures. They mop up the spilled water, throw away the spoiled magazines. They stack the papers and put them in the order the Manager likes them kept. They approach the kitchen but hold back. The Captain tells them to leave it for a bit, no one will mind if the mess is left until morning, why don't they just go and get a good night's sleep. "Whatever ill wind has blown through the old hotel," he says, "it will blow itself out again soon enough."

When the storm passes Alex looks up at me, curious, "What _are_ you?"

I smile, "I'm whatever you need me to be."

"You died. Properly."

"So did you."

"But you were a vampire. Hal says vampires don't..." Alex falters, she'll never understand this supernatural stuff.

"Do you really want to rely on what Hal says about anything?" I interrupt. "He doesn't hold all the answers, Alex. No one does."

"Are you...you're no' a ghost?"

"What I am is _here_, for you, for now. For Hal, for Tom, for everyone. That's all that matters."

"I've lost it, haven't I? I've gone for a Burton."

It amuses me that she thinks she's the mad one. She doesn't know the first thing about madness, "Take it from me, you're perfectly sane. Just hang in there. We can fix this. I have a plan."

"He's drinking blood again."

"And you're going to help him."

"I can't. I..." she falters again, the emotions well up. The milk on the floor starts to boil. "He doesn't want help, not really."

"Alex, he always needs help. He can't do it without you. Without any of us he'll fail. And if he fails, we all fail. Trust me. There's something you need to see. Will you let me show you? It's the last one." I hold up my hand in a salute, "Brownie promise."

"I don't think I can," Alex sobs, "I'm no' strong enough. Whatever it is you think I can do...I can't. We tried. We didn't do any good."

A light laugh escapes from me. "Alex, you are capable of the most _amazing_ things. You're sitting here talking to a dead vampire. How many times do you think that has happened? Never. I'll tell you that. Do you think that has anything to do with me? It doesn't, it has _everything_ to do with you."

"Me?"

"Don't you get it. I'm stuck to you, like white on rice. When I was alive you crawled inside what was left of my soul, to save the man we both loved, you put yourself at massive risk. And that little bit of me, that little bit of humanity rattling around in the darkness...you made it _live_ again. You made it bright. You made it so bright it burned. It's still burning. It's so powerful it keeps everything else at bay. _You_ made me a better person, not Hal, your friendship. It's like you held on to me. Willed me back. Drew me in. I've been here ever since." I poke a finger at her heart. "I was brought back for a reason, Alex, and it isn't a _good_ reason. But because of what you did I've been able to fight it. I found friends, people to keep me busy, distracted, but they weren't always there. There were times when I nearly gave in, and did what I was sent to do, but every time the urge came it was you who kept my humanity stronger than anything in me. You know, I knew when you were born, I was in Goa, it was 1990, and it was like someone turned on a light. Do you know what your unfinished business is yet?"

Alex sniffs. She fumbles at the list she keeps in her pocket and shakes her head.

I smile, "It'll come to you. And when it does you'll need Grace."

"I'll need what?"

"The woman who owns the B&B, she has something I left for you all. She's keeping it safe. You'll need it."

"I don't understand."

"You will."

Alex struggles for words. I help her to her feet and straighten her jacket, "You're going to the B&B. And if he asks, you're going to help him. Promise me. Please, it's important."

Alex shakes her head, "He doesn't deserve my help."

"I know you say that, but you don't really mean it. None of us ever do. A lot of people have sacrificed more than you can imagine to help that man, we all felt the same, we all helped anyway. I came to Honolulu Heights a year ago to kill him. Look where that got me."

"Yeah, in the back of a cupboard...in an urn," Alex laughs.

"Funny, babes. Funny."

"Okay, fine, but only _if_ he asks. So...what is it you wanted to show me?"

"That's my girl!" I smile, I pull her close. I hold her a moment, knowing this is the only time I will get to do this. I whisper in her ear. "Forty-five minutes to the full moon." And spin her around so she can see what she needs to see.


	12. Ain't no party like a H-club party!

**Chapter 12 - Ain't no party like a H-club party!  
**

Alex finds herself in a large, crowded room. She is dizzy, still rapt with rage and emotion she left in the Barry Grand kitchen, but Linny said this was important, so she does her best to concentrate. She hugs to the wall as a sudden swell of people bustle around her. The noise of so many raised voices; the drab surroundings of the building she finds herself in, the chapped brick, scratched walls; clink of glasses; and herds of vampires laughing, fangs and foulness bared, makes her feel sick. She tries to get hold of her bearings and moves towards the excitable mass of people in the well lit centre of the room. The light draws her towards it, like a moth to a flame, and she feels Linny pushing her too.

Alex is unable to see what it is that everyone is crowding around. "What the hell is this place?" she asks the angel at her shoulder. Eventually Alex is pushed and egged on by the crowd behind, from the gloomy, low-ceilinged area in which she began, and into a wide open space. Here the air is thick with cigarette smoke, and through the mele, Alex can see that the walls are a ramshackle mess of exposed brickwork and white tiles. The roof, high above, is rusted corrugated iron with a line of mostly broken windows under the eaves. She surmises that it must be some sort of warehouse.

"You really do take me to the most glamorous, Belinda," she mutters dryly.

The crowd is thirty vampires deep. Alex wonders what the collective noun for vampires; a murder? A hiss? A basement? Hal would know. Despite the surroundings everyone is smart, slick. The women are lithe, silken silhouettes, they wrap themselves around the dandy vamps at their elbows who clink beer bottles, wine and worse. It's a party.

Then she sees Cutler, drunk in the corner. Women loll at his breast. She recognises where in the past she has been sent; this is gangster Hal's territory. She looks for him, he can't be far away. He's the last thing she wants to see now. This Hal doesn't represent the past anymore. He's an outfit on a hanger by the door which her Hal is about to slip into. Nonetheless she cannot help but search. Where is he? She is drawn to what is going on in the centre of the room, passing invisibly through the crowd to get a better look. Is he there? What horrible point in his life does she have to see now? Something distracts her. To her left, she spots a man on a raised platform, marking numbers on a chalkboard, a shouting mob at his feet pass money up to him urgently as a beautiful woman, barely clothed, holds up a garish sign: "Forty-Five minutes to the full moon!"

Alex pushes forward, not sure she really wants to know what is going on, until she sees the wrought iron bars of a cage through a gap in the crowd. She realises, with a start, exactly what she has walked into.

"Shit. It's a fucking dog fight, isn't it?" She remembers Tom recounting just why McNair never, ever trusted vampires. It brings the anger back, a lump to her throat. "I don't want to see this," she declares to the ether. Hal did this? Hal was involved! Why does it not surprise her? What idiots they had both been. "This isn't helping, Belinda," she reports.

Everything she sees is just reaffirming that feeling that she has fallen in love with something foul. "Where is he, I'm going to smack his face and hope he feels it!" Well at least she wasn't crying anymore.

All Alex can think of is Tom and she can't bear to look. Whatever it is, however, it mercifully hasn't started yet. She retreats back towards the dimly lit walkway surrounding the arena, glad that it is almost completely deserted. Leaning back against the white tiled wall, for a moment, she notices the familiar blonde loitering near an open doorway at the other end of the aisle. She hangs against the proscenium frame like a voluptuous green curtain, oozing sex, watching the crowd. No one is openly watching her, but everyone is perfectly aware of her presence, especially the men. She shines like glory, a beacon in the darkness.

Colette.

"Watcha, Frenchie," Alex whines with distraction; thankful, at least, that there's no rumpy-pumpy going on this time. The french woman watches the crowd beyond, seemingly separate from it, uncaring, but Alex can tell that she is everything but that. She is, in fact, watching the room with cat-like care. She draws from a cigarette. Alex arrives next to her at the same time as two suited men approach from behind, nodding a greeting as they make to go through the door next to Colette. She stops them, sticking her long leg before them across the doorway, sliding herself subtly between them and the passage beyond.

"Attendez, Fergus. It cannot be time yet?" she says, coolly drawing their eyes up her body to her voice.

Alex presumes the man who responds is Fergus. His temper is blunt, scouse. He seems nonplussed by Colette's allure. "Dog's gonna start transforming soon. Gunna to get 'em in the cage early, otherwise things can get a bit hairy, if you know what I mean." He grins, clearly considering himself very funny. Colette does not laugh as he leers at her cleavage.

"Seigneur Harry is playing with the wolf. He is not to be disturbed," she clarifies. "Do you _really_ want to spoil his party?"

"He won't care. He knows me and Dennis'll be coming to get it. Shift over, woman."

A voice trills from the crowd behind them, "Forty minutes until the full moon" A cheer roars out.

Fergus moves to step past Colette, but she stops him in his tracks by pressing her hand to his breast bone. She twists her fingers around his tie and adjusts it for him. Pulling it just a little too tight.

"I hate to see you so worried, Fergus, but trust me there's no need to rush. There is still time before you need to worry. Let Seigneur Harry have his fun. You _know_ how he gets when his instructions are ignored. Why don't I go downstairs and remind him of the time for you, hm?" Alex watches with amusement as Colette makes her point by subtly puffing out her chest to expose more of her breasts. She draws her long fingers down his sideburns and pinches his chin coyly, drawing his gaze down just enough. The snug, dangerously low-cut emerald green dress does its job perfectly. She flutters her eyelashes at him almost brazenly. "He will respond better to me, don't you think?" she assures him. "We don't want his mood to spoil the party do we?"

"Fuck it, fine, but if it starts transforming while we're still bloody moving it, I'll be right pissed off. I'll want a freebie next time I call, Colette." He drops the bunch of keys into her cleavage with a grin and a wink. Then he, and his silent associate, make their way back towards the crowd. "Hurry up."

As the men move away Alex hears Fergus mutter, "I fucking hope it goes off on one now. Eheh, Woof!"

Alex rolls her eyes. "Your friends were serious shits, Hal!" she sighs and returns to Colette, "You should have kneed him in the knackers, love." She has to give the woman credit. Colette certainly knows how to divert attention when she wants to!

The ghost catches the blonde's relieved expression before she hurries through the doorway, through which Alex follows, sure that this must be what she is here to see.

They walk to the end of the narrow corridor where Colette unlocks a heavy steel door. Alex can't help but notice that Colette's hands are shaking. What's going on? She hears voices down below, impassioned and muffled conversation. "I swear to God if he's torturing a fucking werewolf down there, Linny, I'm done. End of the Affair."

They descend a long, steel staircase. Colette's footsteps echo metallically throughout the passage. Alex is convinced she's trying to be as loud as possible. Eventually they enter a dank, crudely lit basement full of empty rooms and passageways.

"Yup," Alex concludes, "It's definitely a 'basement' of Vampires."

Hal pokes his head around one of the rotting doorframes suddenly, causing Alex to jump.

He seems visibly relieved to see Colette, but something is different about him. His glance is skittish, concerned with the crowd above.

"What the hell are you doing down here?" he demands sourly. He looks a total mess, undeniably handsome with the whole shirt, braces, unfastened bow tie combo, but Alex can see how flustered he is. It's hard to believe this is the same man she saw in Colette's office before. He has shed a few layers of cool since then. True, he wasn't exactly a vision of calm collectedness in the last vision, far from it, but now the fear is evident. She recognises this Hal. Her rage at the man in the rain washes away as soon as she sees him.

"I came to remind you of the time, mon Seigneur. Is everything alright?" Colette asks, seemingly herself again after her earlier nerves.

Hal looks behind him.

Alex frowns. Something is clearly wrong. "What's he done. Shit, did he kill it?"

Hal stares at Colette for a long few seconds before answering, he claws at his teeth with his tongue. That's normally a bad sign. Alex tries to get a glimpse but then Hal straightens, something like control comes over him.

"We've played our roles well over the years, Colette, haven't we," he says with a smile. "You're almost as good as me at keeping up the pretence, but I know how good you are at reading people, so I'll assume you know me quite well by now."

Colette does not answer. She simply smiles, "I do not know what you mean, mon Seigneur," she is obviously lying.

"You must have noticed a change in me," he encourages, until his bravado fails. He looks down at the floor as if he is ashamed, scuffing his shoes in the dust.

"Oui, mon Seigneur. I have," she answers calmly.

Hal looks back, clearly surprised at her honesty. "Can I trust you?" he says, but it's not as if he is asking her, but himself.

"Always," she says.

He looks at her, almost into her. He doesn't believe her.

Colette does not blink when she responds, letting him appreciate the honesty in her eyes. "You know, I've become so good at showing people what they want to see, I have no idea who I am any more? Sometimes I think perhaps you are the only one to understand that? Am I right?" she asks.

Hal doesn't seem to know how to respond.

"The thing is, I think have finally found a lover I can be myself with."

He shakes his head in shock. "Colette...I..." he begins.

"Not you," she clarifies, "At least, not in the same way. You can trust me, Hal, because I wouldn't know this person if it had not been for you. After everything you have done for me, I owe you. Ça va?"

Hal clearly decides he _can _trust her.

"I need..." he falters. "I need your help."

"Then you can have it...Hal," Colette's response is simple but contains everything he needs, it is personal, caring, and the truth. Alex totally likes Colette.

"Come on!" Alex air pumps when she see's him relax. "Get in."

There's a roar from the next room. Alex is familiar with the sound. It's the sound of a werewolf beginning to transform.

"Damnit!" Hal's tone becomes frenetic, when he hears it too. "We have to go, **now**. We've not much time!" Something about his demeanour leads Alex to believe that it isn't the wolf's transformation that is forcing him to act quickly, but something about the opportunity, the mood he is in, that if he doesn't take advantage of it now, he may never have another option.

"We?" Colette asks.

A cheer trickles down into the darkness from above. Thirty-five minutes? A cry of pain calls out again from the room behind them.

Hearing it, Hal swears, "Shit!" He looks back at Colette, flustered, as if he suddenly doesn't know how to explain. "There's no time to explain. I'm taking the werewolf, Leo. We're leaving!"

* * *

**A/N: KatyNewt and I have had a lot of fun with this and the next chapter. We hope you enjoy. Don't forget to drop a review. More to follow.**


	13. All that we see or seem

**Chapter 13 - All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.**

"Leo?!" Alex shouts in recognition of the name, glad neither of the others can hear her.

"The wolf? But Hal, it won't be long before he transforms. It's not safe!" Colette shakes her head desperately. Her eyes on craning behind Hal's shoulder to catch a voyeuristic glimpse of the agony Hal's future friend is experiencing.

Alex is pacing, she can't believe it. Leo? Hal had never said how they had met, just that they were friends. Leo was a captive! Hal did this to him? Shit, that man must've been a proper saint to put up with Hal's BS after that!

"That's precisely why there isn't time to talk about it, Colette, I just need you to help us. Please. Distract them. We can slip out before anyone notices. By the time they do, they'll be too scared of him to put any real effort into looking for either of us. If I'm lucky they may even think I have been killed." Hal explains hurriedly, pacing a few steps before rushing back into the room he came from. Colette trails after him, followed closely by Alex.

"You will be killed, you fool!" Colette hisses heatedly. She grasps for him and pulls him back, dropping her facade completely and speaking to him as an equal. Chastising a man whom she has only ever shown reverence to.

Suddenly Hal turns on his heels to face her. There is a flash of the man he has been in his face. Colette stops so suddenly that Alex only just manages not to bump into her. Alex panics for a second, as does Colette. Caught between two moods, they both expected him to lash out at her response. He does not. Her Hal wins the round.

"We have known each other for thirteen years, Colette," he sighs and then smiles. "Do you really think I am a fool?"

"Non. No, Hal. Never."

"Until now?"

Colette shakes her head, "I'm sure you have your reasons."

Hal sighs, taking Alex, and by the looks of it Colette too, by surprise. He is beating the monster with such ease it makes Alex proud. He laughs, tugging the bow-tie from his collar and stuffing it in his pocket. He hands Colette the bottle he carries and tidies his shirt. Alex smiles, there's the Hal she knows, not a button out of place. "This is the first time we've spoken to each other honestly. Really honestly, I mean, without the act. Thank you, Colette. I'm only sorry we have not done this sooner."

"Oui, C'est une tragédie."

Hal swallows and licks his lips in a way that Alex knows all too well. He does when the subject of her death comes up, as it does every now and then. It's his go-to expression for awkward sadness.

Leo lets out a yelp of pain, from the next room. "Please! Hal! We haven't much time! If you are going to do this you must do it now!"

"This is actually it, isn't it?" Alex asks her shoulder, "the night that everything changed? The last time he turned good."

Hal releases himself from Colette's grip and walks in on a man chained to the wall by his wrists. It hurts Alex to know this is the man whom her Hal has cared so much about, all these years, and that after all this time everything Leo achieved, sacrificed, might go to waste. Was Linny talking about Leo?

Colette follows, and remains a few paces behind Hal and the wolf. She is clearly wary of the chained man, aware that, despite the fact that he is shackled to the wall, he is still dangerous. Alex becomes acutely aware of how little time remains. Hal is cutting it a bit fine.

With caution, Colette passes Hal the bunch of keys that Fergus gave her. To the relief of both Alex and Leo, and to Colette's terror, Hal sets about hurriedly unshackling the wolf.

When he is done he steps back, palms aloft in supplication. "If you were lying before, kill me, but leave her. She's had nothing to do with this. It was all me." Hal says the last sentence as though he's confessing to himself as well as to the werewolf. Alex can't help but feel for him, even if this does help to bring home what an evil bastard he was... or could be again?

"I will keep my word," says Leo, clapping Hal on the shoulder bravely. "And you will keep yours. This will be a new chapter for both of us. I am sure of it."

He suddenly clutches to his stomach, rotates his shoulders with difficulty, and stretches out his muscles. "But I think we must go, now, my friend. I have little time." He is such a brave man. After everything Hal had clearly put him through, to call him a 'friend' with such intent. Alex felt a little embarrassed, her attempts at friendship seemed shallow in comparison. She wishes she had met Leo, properly. She can see why Hal liked him, and why Leo had better luck keeping Hal clean. He was clearly stronger than Alex and Tom combined.

But Hal stops suddenly. He fondles the keys in his hands with care. It is as if he is doubting the decision. Alex worries, his window of opportunity is closing. Stick with it! Alex wills, perhaps this isn't the day after all? Then, to everyone's surprise, including himself, he retracts his arm throws the keys as far into the darkness as he can.

"There!" he laughs, almost mad at amusement and surprise at his commitment. "Can't turn back now."

Leo lurches forward, causing both Colette and Hal to jump in fear. Hal grasps for Colette's arm, his voice laced with excitement and terror at the adventure before him, "You need to stall Fergus and the others, will you do that? Tell them I'm not ready for them to take him yet, or at least tell them nothing was untoward." He never takes his eyes from the wolf.

"What will you do now?" she asks, trying to tease him away.

"Find a way out and make a run for it. You don't need to concern yourself with..." Leo catches hold of Hal's sleeve. He flinches. The wolf is coming.

A muffled cheer comes from above. They haven't much time! Alex resists the urge to see how long they have left.

"C'est ça ton plan? Imbécile! Come on, there is another way out." Colette hurries off without waiting for an answer, leaving Hal stunned for a moment. With caution he assists the werewolf, helping him to follow. Alex, Hal and Leo catch up with the blonde further up the passageway.

"Colette, you don't need to! You're too involved as it is," Hal argues.

"You have no idea," she mutters under her breath, rousing Alex's suspicions as she procures (from godknowswhere in that dress) a key. Something seriously fishy is going on. The way she was waiting above, guarding the door, that clearly hadn't been at Hal's request; he was surprised to see her. And now she has a key to let them out the back?

They climb a set of stairs and come to a rusting steel door, which Colette unlocks and shoves open as quietly as she can manage. Through it, Alex can just make out a river and a concrete dock in the gloom. The sound of traffic is evident in a constant hum broken up by honking horns and the low groan of old fashioned sirens. They are in a city then, probably London.

She steps aside as Hal, Leo and Colette exit the building. Leo collapses on the dock. He is trying desperately to maintain some kind of silence, despite the apparent pain of the transformation.

Colette checks behind them, ensuring that there are no witnesses to their departure. When she emerges behind them, Alex turns to look back at the building. It is a large, red brick warehouse, the roof and windows of the main store room housing the cage easily visible from where she stands, the crowd still roaring loudly inside.

"Colette, go back inside. Please!" Hal insists.

"Non. Not yet," the blonde cuts him off again. She pulls her dress up to her knees and starts to wade across the rough, weed ravaged concrete of the dock towards what looks like a well lit road a few hundred yards away. Hal helps Leo to his feet. They follow.

When they reach the road, Colette flags down a passing taxi as if this is the most normal situation in the world. A black London cab pulls up, immediately, at the side of the road in front of them.

"What will you tell the others?" Hal asks breathlessly.

"It will be best if they think you are dead. I'm quite good at making people believe what I want them to." Colette smirks, but Alex can see that this goodbye is a sad one. Colette is performing again.

Hal moves Leo towards the car desperately. He helps him inside as best he can. When the cab driver turns with terror Hal reaches into his pocket and throws a roll of notes at him. That stifles the man's complaints.

Hal hesitates at the door. Is he suddenly afraid of climbing into a cab with a dangerous animal?

"There's not enough time. I...I can go back? I should go back." He's speaking to himself.

Colette reaches out in the darkness. This, Alex thinks, This is it, this is what I need to see, isn't it?

"You can do this," Colette says with sadness. "It's what you want, Hal, I know this."

He looks her in the eye. It is only when they hear a cheer, a cry from Leo and both look up to see the clouds part to reveal the moon above that their gaze parts. She has done her job, if she wasn't there Alex knows, he wouldn't have followed through. He would have gone back.

Clearly Hal feels the same. "Au Revoir, Colette. Without you.."

She shakes her curls as if it is nothing, and then pushes him into the cab. "Je ne regrette rien," she winks. "Take him somewhere he can transform. You haven't got long, and I will be furious if I find we went through all of this only for you to get killed on the same night!"

Hal manages to smile. "I promise I won't get killed," he says through the window when he is safely inside the cab. Alex gets the feeling he is only half joking. The ghost can see the odd mixture of worry and relief on his face. Colette steps back and the cab starts to pull away, but she seems to hesitate, taking a few hasty steps forward and banging on the roof of the car to signal the driver to stop before he has moved more than a few feet away.

"Wait!" she says breathlessly. "Hal, je suis desole! J'ai besoin de savoir ce qui a change?"

"Colette! I …"

"Why, Hal? I just need to know why."

He stays quiet for a moment, seeming unable to answer. It is only the pain that comes from his new friend's transformation which causes him to hurry. He grasps her hand through the window and holds it tightly. "'Je déteste mes compatriotes êtres et ne se sentent pas que je suis leur homme à tout'" he explains, "Au Revoir."

Colette nods her understanding and steps back away from the curb again.

The cab pulls away, leaving Alex and the vampire alone on the pavement.

"So it's done now, right?" Alex asks her.

The French woman does not respond, of course. They wait, they watch. Alex reaches out to see if she can comfort her. Colette shows no sadness. She seems horribly prepared. Alex wonders what poor human will feel the sadness she is hiding from herself.

Suddenly she retreats, and leaves, after one last a lingering look on the cab that disappears into the distance.

"He'll be okay," Alex says, "I won't give up on him. Brownie Promise."

Colette hurries back to the warehouse and Alex quickly follows, wondering why she is still here at all. Surely that was what she had been meant to see? What more could there be?

"Linny, can I come home now. Shit's going down!" she calls out into the crowd. No one responds to her. "Okay, this isn't funny, seriously!"

Colette creeps into the building, back through the passages they had traversed earlier, with Hal and Leo, until she reaches the first set of stairs. At the top, Alex watches her take a deep breath to compose herself. She musses up her hair a bit, tares the strap of her dress, exposing a little flesh on purpose and pushes open the door to the area.

As soon as she is out in the open, she puts on the most perfect act of distress that Alex thinks she has ever seen. She runs straight into Fergus, slamming into him obviously, chest heaving with horror.

"Fergus! The werewolf has escaped!"

"What!? Don't fuck me about, woman, what do you mean escaped?" Fergus' face has turned alarmingly pale. From what Alex has heard about him, from Tom, this couldn't be happening to a nicer bloke.

"He has taken Seigneur Hal! I am sure of it!" Colette weeps, crocodile tears staining her face with black rivers of mascara. "I searched the whole basement but I could not find them anywhere! Que ferons-nous? Seigneur Hal doit être mort! He must be dead! Oh, I just know it!"

Moonshine splashes over the concrete as Fergus drops his bottle on the floor. He and the other men in the group rush to the basement door in a crowd.

"Ten minutes to the Full Moon!" the dancing girl exclaims but there is no cheer this time.

News has spread fast. The distant throng beyond are silent, apparently completely taken in by Colette's performance. And why wouldn't they be? She is a picture of panic stricken innocence.

"You sly cow," Alex grins, marvelling at her act, complementing it with a slow applause.

Colette does not seem pleased in the slightest at her success. Even as news of what has happened filters through to others in the crowd. Some rush their way towards the basement to see for themselves, others mill about around the cage, unsure of what to do. Mutters rustle amongst them, 'Lord Hal, Dead?' 'What?!' 'It's not possible!'

Riot and chaos ricochet amongst the party, but Colette slips away quietly. Alex follows with caution as Colette makes her way to the opposite side of the room and out of the main entrance. Everything seems to happen in slow motion, while Colette just glides. Terror and panic and disturbance break the party into almost nothing. A few people hurry past completely oblivious, barely looking at her. They speak in hushed tones about not wanting to be stuck in the vicinity of an escaped werewolf.

Colette smiles. Slowly, serenely.

"What are you up to?" Alex asks, following behind, dodging vampire after vampire as they pass.

Eventually Colette stops. She is alone now, betting slips blow around her ankel bottles roll along the floor. She turns, briefly, checking that she is not being followed. She straightens her curls as Alex rounds a corner, wondering where the hell she is going now.

She stops dead!

A woman clad in black stands in the shadows.

"Oh, no! No fucking way," Alex says in horror. "You were here? All along?"

Belinda looks up from the darkness, she's sporting bloody sunglasses again.

"It's done," Colette says calmly, coming to rest with her back against the wall next to Belinda.

"He'll be okay," she reassures Colette. "I won't give up on him. Brownie Promise." She pulls Colette close and holds her, before, to Alex's surprise, Belinda lifts her hand to Colette's slender neck and draws their lips together.

The kiss between them is tender, lingering, nothing like the way Alex had seen Colette behave with Hal. Alex's eyes widen. Her jaw flops open. Her eyebrows hit the sky. "Shag me sideways with a spoon!" she spits eventually. "She was talking about bloody Linny...to Hal!"

Belinda pulls away from the kiss suddenly. She looks behind Colette. "Alex?" she asks.

Alex slaps her hand over her mouth. No way Belinda had heard her?

"Alex! Are you here?" Belinda moves towards Alex.

"Belinda, please, not now! I need you right now," the french woman sighs, as if this is a usual occurrence, "Tonight, of all nights, can we just celebrate?"

She's close to Alex now but seems unable to see her. She is becoming exasperated. "She's here, I know it!"

"Who, ma chérie?"

"Alex."

"Oui, je comprend. But _who_ is Alex?"

"Fuck it!" Belinda says and snaps off her shades. Alex stares in astonishment as Belinda's large eyes are burning a bright red. They scan the darkness and then suddenly look directly at Alex.

Alex gasps and retreats in horror as Linny moves towards her.

Colette pulls her back to her, suddenly seeing the change in Belinda's face. "Mon dieu! Ma chérie, tes yeux!"

Belinda hurriedly slips the sunglasses back on, "It's nothing."

"It's no' fucking nothing," Alex spits. "What's wrong wi' ye?"

"I don't know, Alex." Belinda answers, frankly.

"There's no one there, chérie." Colette urges, kissing Belinda again as if to distract her from what must seem to be a raving episode. Belinda gives into her attention as easily as any man would.

"No," Belinda smiles, when they are done, "You're right. It's no one, No-one Inparticular."

Alex looks horrified. "I'm not!" Belinda looks at Alex again in equal surprise that they can see each other.

"Look at _me_, ma chérie."

Colette coyly takes Linny's shades away again, folds them closed and slips them safely in her cleavage. Alex squats beside her to get a better look as Linny looks into her eyes. They still burn red. Belinda stares at Alex. Alex stares at Belinda.

"What is this?" Colette asks cupping her hand to her cheek gently. "Please?"

"I told you, It's nothing!" she says, not looking away.

"Belinda? Soyez honnête avec moi, s'il te plaît, ma chérie!"

_**"It's nothing!**_" Linny's voice deepens horribly, it resonates through the corridor like something from the depths of the earth. Both Colette and Alex are taken aback. Colette clearly tries not to let Belinda's evasion phase her. She is stronger than Alex. She takes Belinda's shades and hands them back. Leaning in to kiss her deftly.

"I'll be at the pub," she says with a wiggle. "Don't be late. Izzy is waiting."

A distant howl breaks the tension. They both look up.

Belinda looks at Alex. "Tell me he's okay?" she asks her.

Alex doesn't know what to say. Colette looks back. Both women seem to be waiting for a response.

Alex shakes her head, "He's drinking blood again. I...I don't know what to do. You sent me here, but I don't know why."

It's Colette who answers, returning to Linny and holding her hand, "He will be fine, ma chérie. I am sure of it. We helped him. Now, qu'est-ce que Izzy a dit? 'As long as he doesn't go and get himself killed...'"

"'...then, Apocalypse averted.' Mostly," Belinda completes, staring at Alex.

"Exactement! Now, Champagne?!"

"Oui, ma chérie, Champagne it is!" Linny smiles, returning finally to the woman who has had all of the adventure that night and none of the reward. She kisses Colette again, deeply, thankfully. It's a kiss that is full of truth. "I will tell you everything soon, I promise. Trust me?"

Colette nods.

Alex doesn't care. One word is sticking in her head and if only the girls would get their hands off each other, maybe Linny would have heard her yelling. "Apocalypse! What the hell has Hal got to do with the shitting Apocalypse? Oi...Brookside Close...Apocolyse _when_?"

"Let us hope your werewolf friend doesn't change his mind, hm?" Colette says sadly.

"He won't," Belinda assures her, "Leo knows what's at stake. It's the others I worry about."

"The others?"

"What?" Alex agrees.

"The ones that I won't be able to talk to, babes. The ones that come after." Belinda clearly acknowledges Alex now. "If only we could tell them not to give up on him," she says, "To keep him safe, for all our sakes, even when he's at his worst. But I suppose we can't do that can we?"

"Time will tell, ma chérie, I'm sure we'll be there when he needs us to be."

Alex shakes her head, "No, no you're not...not properly. You...you died, Linny. You need to tell me now. Please!"

Belinda looks about her and Colette, as if trying to find Alex in the dark. She takes off her shades, her eyes have returned to their natural colour. Alex assumes she can't see her any more. Can she hear her? As Colette leads Belinda away, but Alex is sure Belinda turns and winks. They round the corner.

Alex follows behind, "Oi, Linny! I said, what has Hal got to do with the shitting Apocalypse? Oi! Taillights! I know you can hear me!"

But when she rounds the corner she finds no one there. Only the cold metal and tile of the Barry Grand kitchen. She is alone. And goodness knows where Hal is!

"Shit," says Alex, "Tom's going to fucking kill him when he finds out, isn't he?"

The silence tells her everything she needs to know. She disappears to find Tom.


	14. Why, I can smile

**Chapter 14 - 'Why, I can smile; and murder while I smile'**

"We're done," I say to Alex.

I close the door to Honolulu Heights behind me and, with that, my life.

Henry Yorke is dead, long live Henry Yorke.

It is dark outside. I smile and drink the cold air down. It slides into my gullet like sweet wine, taking the man I have been with it. The scent is palpable, it scratches on the back of my throat; car fumes like lye; the sea air, bitter with salt; the dying flowers in Annie's hanging baskets; and..

All.

That.

Blood.

I swallow. The flavour of it sticks in my teeth. Natasha's blood, on my shirt, caught in the breeze that eddies in the wind. Teasing the atoms of it from my canines, I hesitate for a moment. What hope is left in me tries to turn me back, claw its way into the B&B to beg for another opportunity to waste itself on another cyIcle of foolishness. But we both know there is no hope to be found here. Hope left with Leo.

No.

Hope left with Annie.

No.

Eve?

No.

Something is missing. Something before Tom & Alex.

I shake the sensation away, but it burns like a stomach ulcer, curdling acid in the emptiness. I blame the hope in my gut, as it struggles to claw its way back up my esophagus it is clearly twisting my thoughts against me. It is trying. It will always try. That last gasp of humanity that seems to fucking impossible to shake. Even now, after everything, it's still bloody there.

It will be easier to fight off when I have blood in my stomach. Not a teasing mouthful but a full gallon of it, more, and more, until I am fat with it and can drown out the screams of human desperation that turn me bilious.

A man walks past, a little yappy dog at his ankles.

"Let's have some fun, shall we?" I say to my self.

He looks warm. He has a nice coat. I could do with a coat.

With each step from the house the journey becomes easier, the ache becomes quieter, the man I am becomes stronger.

The dogwalker is in his fifties. The terrier clearly belongs to his wife, the pink collar and dandy fucking coat tell of a man under the thumb, sent into the cold night because the well-being of the animal is more important than his. I'll be doing him a favour. If he hasn't noticed the man covered in blood behind him, hands in pockets, whistling 'put on a happy face' then he's a moron, or deaf, or both.

At the bottom of the hill, he waits, watching with disdain as the little dog takes a shit.

The man leaves it.

Oh...Come on!

Even my good side wants him dead now. It's depressingly easy. Really, I almost feel bad about it. Almost.

I pass around the corner. The dog runs back towards me, barking manically at the night. It clips my heal. Looking up, expecting to find the man there, just waiting for me to drain him dry. Instead there is a woman, leaning on the lampost.

"Hello, babes," she says.

"Who are you?" I snap, looking beyond her to find the dogwalker searching a garden for the infernal creature who passed me by.

"Mr Snuffy!" he calls.

The woman draws my glare. "Nice threads, hun."

"Fuck off. I'm busy. I'm not buying."

She looks horrified, "I'm not selling, babes. Bad day?"

I look her up and down. She's not human. I eye her suspiciously. Werewolf? No. Ghost then.

"What do you want? Did Alex send you?" Something in my stomach churns with hope. "I'm not going back. We're done with that."

"Sort of."

"Get out of my way!"

I push past her but she grasps at my hand and pulls me back. She doesn't _feel_ like a ghost. Something happens when she touches me. It's like electricity up my arm. It jars my neck, spasms through me, down my shoulders. My fingers dance with the sensation. My molars ache with it. My stomach boils. I buckle and double over, clasping at my skull as if I have been suddenly punched in the eye. Something sparks through my synapses: torn sofas, Rachel Cutler, an old woman and a ring, a thousand apologies, a spark of humanity, the arch of a naked stomach in ecstasy, blue eyes, a million toppling dominoes, clawing vines and darkness, a red door...and then blood, so much blood, and dust, and grief.

"You alright, mate?" the dogwalker says, slapping his hand on my shoulder, dragging me out of the sensation. "You been in a fight? You look like you need a doctor!" He says and reaches for his phone, but I am on him before he finds it. I grab for him in a blur, twist his thick neck and bite down like a vice. My teeth pierce his flesh gratefully, eager to make their mark, and his blood floods into me like melted honey. Sweet and salty, full of wasted endeavor. He tastes of misery and failure and fear; all those human things I hate to feel and look forward to destroying now, gulp by gulp until the world is clean of it. I am not fighting against it. I am not forced to drink. I am not ashamed. I am proud. And _he_ is lucky. Lucky. Lucky. Lucky.

Shit, now I have Kylie Minogue in my head. Fucking Pearl and her taste in music, she's ruined me. Mental note: must make friends with better taste in music.

The strange hallucination is still there. Mr Snuffy returns. It barks at her as she watches on. She does not stop me. No, she quotes bloody Shakespeare.

_"Why, I can smile; and murder while I smile'" _she begins.

"_And cry, 'Content,' to that which grieves my heart, _  
_And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, _  
_And frame my face to all occasions. _  
_I'll drown more sailors than the mermaid shall;_  
_I'll slay more gazers than the basilisk; _  
_I'll play the orator as well as Nestor, _  
_Deceive more slily than Ulysses could, _  
_And, like a Sinon, take another Troy. _  
_I can add colours to the chameleon,_  
_Change shapes with Proteus for advantages, _  
_And set the murd'rous Machiavel to school. _  
_Can I do this, and cannot get a crown? _  
_Tut! were it further off, I'll pluck it down," _she sings as I go about my business.

The dog's owner sputters and dies. I have been messy. His throat looks like a colander, full of so many holes it leaks and squirts what is left over my face, clothes, the pavement. I relieve him of his coat, clean myself as best I can with its fabric and stand, dropping his dead weight into the terrier's deposit with a grin.

"Henry VI. Appropriate...a little longwinded, but I appreciate the sentiment, thanks," I acknowledge dryly, before curiosity darkens my high. I remember her face, from somewhere. Did I kill her? I don't think I did. "What _are_ you?"

"It'll come to you. You have a nice day now. Don't die or anything silly like that," she winks.

"Wasn't planning on it, darling." She is quiet beautiful. I wipe my smile clean as I can, slip the coat over my shoulders and pat his corpse on the head. "Thanks, and ...you know rest in peace or whatever," I say, as the blessed desperation in my middle drowns in his sweaty blood.

I look up to see if the woman is still there. She is gone, it leaves me a little sad. A little. It doesn't last. I see a pub. I feel like a lock-in.


	15. The Serpent Saint

**Chapter 15 - The Serpent Saint**

My name is Belinda Veronica Weaver, and I died. Twice. Seriously, that has to be a record I think. The first time was an accident. The second time was not. I have very little time to secure a third, but it is all I hunger for now. A real death. Peace, even Hell would be an improvement on the tease of oblivion. It is made worse by knowing what waits for me, what I am slowly becoming.

Destiny is a bitch, and if I ever meet her I'm going to smack her in her smug face.

I have known what waits for me since 1960, my birthday. I avoided it all this time, learned to control the Demon within. Then I saw the Devil at the Barry Grand and I knew I could avoid it no longer. I was at the reception desk, handing the ditsy manager a post card to send to Hal, when _He_ rolled past. He caught my eye.

I knew what he was. He knew what I was. He smiled.

"Good morning," he said.

"Morning, Captain," chirped the Manageress, "Can I get you a paper?"

"_'Daily Mail', _if you'd be so kind Patsy, and whatever this lovely lady would like to read. Miss..." he arched to see what I had written on the guest book, "...Yorke. Interesting."

"W...why?" I stuttered.

"Used to know a fellow called Yorke, is all. Have a nice day." He rolled off. I heard him mutter 'whore' under his breath and my belly did a flip. There was still things I had to do! I wasn't ready! I needed to warn Hal, Alex, Tom...the world...shit.

The Manageress came in closer, conspiratorially, "Please don't mind the Captain, you know what they get like at that age. He's harmless really."

My mouth had gone dry. The urge to kill something was bitter and the Manageress looked tasty. And I had been so good. I grabbed for the water on the counter and poured myself a glass, "I think I may find another hotel," I said hurriedly, tucking the cash back into my wallet.

This caused the manageress to panic, "Oh, no, there's no need for... I'm sure I can get him to...please, I'm really very sorry."

"It's best. Really. I shouldn't stay here. I have friends. I'll go see them. Thank you..." I reached for my case with desperation, grabbed my coat from the counter and hugged it close, turning to leave so fast that my heal tore the carpet and I landed with a bump, clumsily, upon the floor.

The Devil returned with an electronic whir, his knees met my eyeline. He blocked my exit and I looked up at him with honest-to-god terror. I knew I needed to leave, to get away. But I could hardly start railing on about what he was, I'd be carted off to an institution and I had seen enough of those, destroyed enough, to know I needed to avoid that. Nevertheless, perhaps I should, I thought. It would be better than whatever awaits. I was about to let rip, a full on Loony Linny episode. They could bring police, and doctors and government, and ... anyone! I wouldn't fight. They could lock me away. I would accept it graciously.

Then I saw his smile above egg-smeared chin, the breakfast caught in his teeth, and the fake contrition in his eyes above that. "Terribly sorry," he mewled, "I do _hope_ it wasn't something I said. Please. _Stay_."

I was done for then, I think.

Or course, I stayed.

I didn't leave my room, nor the hotel. I waited. I tried to warn my friends but I couldn't even write the words, they were locked in me. 'Leave', 'Run', 'Help', but every time I tried to send a warning I just ended up writing gibberish, or dirty jokes, or platitudes. There was only one card that made sense, I gave it to one of the waitresses in secret and asked her to post it through the door of the B&B. I did my best to put my plan in place, and the Devil let me struggle until, one night, he came, like I knew he would. He knocked on my door. Of course, I opened it. He carried a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

"Hello, my dear. Fancy a night cap?"

I backed away from my door, allowing him to enter as he wheeled his way inside, bounding his chair off the badly papered walls. I shut the door and lingered beside it hoping I would find the urge to escape. It did not come.

"Come come, now, don't be a wallflower," he said and patted the quilt on the bed, beside which he had parked himself. Of course, I approached. I sat. That's the thing with the devil, unlike any other creature he doesn't even need to make you do what he wants, you just do it. It's as if there is nothing to resist, no spell, no blood-magic, no mystery. "I have to say, you've caught me a little by surprise. A pleasant surprise, nonetheless, Miss Weaver. Really, you've pepped an old man right up."

"You know who I am?"

"And you know who I am, it seems. Cheers." He handed me a glass. We clinked. We sipped. "Question is, my dear, do you know _what_ you are?"

I nodded sadly.

"Good, good, I would hate to explain. It all gets a bit grandiose, you know, all thees and thous and wherefores - you're sweating, my dear." He reached out towards me with a puggish hand, and wiped his thumb across my forehead, "And upon her forehead was a name written a mystery," he muttered. "What is your real name, my dear?"

"Belinda Veronica Weaver."

He shook his head. "No, that's what you were _named_, my dear, subtle difference." He winked. "After a Serpent and a Saint. What a charmingly perfect contradiction. Have you decided which one you are yet?" He smiled. "I could tell you which it's going to be, save you the time and bother."

I shook my head. "It's all to play for," I said.

Suddenly he grabbed at my neck and pulled me close. He looked deep into my eyes. He saw me then, all of me, not just the demon, but everything else as well. "How did you do it?" he asked with fascination.

"Do what?" I feigned ignorance but it is, of course, foolish to lie to the devil.

His features darkened. He knew what I had done to myself. He probably even knew why. I think I saw him afraid. "Get rid of it! Kill it all," he instructed as he wheeled away in a much more pleasant mood. "I'll see you when it's done, my dear. We've work to do."

That night the vampire that I was walked into Honolulu Heights to see Hal, to say goodbye. The Demon I am becoming made sure I was near Alex, thus ensuring I would return, grow stronger through her, strong enough to become what the Devil needs me to be. It's so close now and to have form again is intoxicating. I can feel myself getting stronger, more solid with every step. I am fuelled by the wrath that Alex is producing, and boy is she full of it right now. She's a whirlwind of rage.

And so, today is the day. He has risen.

Hal has fallen off the wagon. Alex has a broken heart. Tom is ready to slaughter his hopes, his dreams, his potential, and I have had over fifty years to prepare for the day that the Devil fires the starting pistol on the Apocalypse. I just hope I have done what I can to protect what I care about before I don't feel the need to care any more. The last thing I have to do is to see Tom. I need to tell him not to kill Hal. After that, all I can do is hope I can hold out a little longer until Grace gets here.

I reach the hotel. I lay my hand on the door. I am about to enter and then...

Everything goes dark.

Alex screams.


	16. Alex, the Apocalypse and I

**Chapter 16 - Alex, the Apocalypse and I.**

"Okay, so I can't rentaghost out," Alex concludes after a good fifteen minutes of delusional attempts to escape the coffin in which we find ourselves. At one point she was trying so hard I thought she might lay an egg.

Clearly she got herself in the way of the Captain's plans, despite my warnings! Do people never listen! She couldn't have chosen a worse moment. I know what is going to happen now, while we're stuck in here Tom is going to bloody well kill Hal. We can't let that happen!

Demonic transformation has a few perks, omniscient understanding of the upcoming Apocalypse being top of the win list. At least that's the way I like to look at it now. I didn't feel so warm and fuzzy about it to begin with. At first it was hard to make sense of. My poor ashen brain couldn't contain it; it swam with the darkness of it all. I was broken, but the vampire is a survivor and I was still full of all that blood I drank from Stuart to feast on: it was a powerful concoction. Purgatory was like an incubation for me, a rebirth as something new, and as I healed the nightmares, visions, terrors consumed and confused me. They are loud and bloody and dusty and foul, and for a long time I was unable to talk or move or comprehend them. I was like a child thrown into a war zone. I was a gibbering mess when Isabella first found me, stumbling through corridor after corridor, naked, terrified, and desperate. I was mumbling about Hal, the Apocalypse, the End-of-Days, Alex & Tom, how they were all in danger, how I needed to get out, to help. She got me out. Everything after that is a blur. It wasn't until I was sent off with Richard, that I started making sense. Time heals all wounds. I began to remember who I was. Around then Isabella started to try and find out what she could about what I knew. She was gentle and cautious, aware that what sanity and presence of mind I had gained was a fragile thing. It began with stories about her and Hal, then she moved to what she had seen of him since she had passed over. I listened. Hungry for his history as if it were my own. Eventually she told me about what Hal and his friends did, the War the Devil started, the ritual. She asked me if my nightmares had anything to do with that. I told her I didn't know. That was a lie. I couldn't tell her the truth. Literally, I tried, but I couldn't form the words. The demon inside wouldn't let me. Every time I tried to tell her it was like the truth say upon the tip of my tongue in a language I couldn't decipher. I could only say he needed to live, and we needed to protect him. So we did.

Now all that we did is so close to failure! I can't let this ruin everything.

I can only hope that this can't be a permanent prison for either of us. The Devil knows I'm stuck to Alex and he needs me. He must know I am growing stronger, but I am not strong enough yet to break free. Maybe this is his way of incentivising me to make that final push? Even after all this time, I don't like small spaces. Alex, clearly, feels the same.

_Do you want to keep trying? You're going to get a headache. Just relax. _Can she even hear me? For what seems like eternity I have been only able to break through in her subconscious. I have had no voice, no form, no free-will, not like this. To have it now and not to be heard…well, it's a little fucking annoying to say the least.

"Why can't I rentaghost out!?"

_I don't know, babes._

"What's he done to me, the bastard!?"

_Don't panic_. _Try to stay calm. Think._

"Okay. Don't panic. Wait a sec? Can I walk through walls? Can I do that? Am I basically one of the X-men?" she asks No-one Inparticular.

I smile. _How about you try. _

She pushes and kicks at the roof of the coffin, the corpse besides us shifts in the effort causing her to wince and cease. "That'll be a 'No', then."

"Think, and be calm." I try to encourage her, surprised when I hear my words break free from _her_ lips! "Just rest your hand on that roof. Easy peasy, summer breezy," I say.

Alex takes the instruction as her own and pushes again with all her might. Her phone falls from her breast and lands on the rotting floor of the box. Darkness again. In exasperation she fondles in the mire for the device, finally, grossed-out by the encounter, she retrieves it. "Why is there no torch on this cocking touchscreen!"

_Alex, please, try and be calm. We need to stop Tom from killing Hal! It's really important. _

That does it. A cool determination finally washes over my host. "Okay...okay let's do this." She reaches up into the darkness, picturing the earth beyond the box, the air beyond that, and somewhere in the distance the chaos we both know is about to break loose. I push too, after all this time I have come too far, done too much to let this set everything back. Even though I know that our escape from this will seal my fate, the prospect that it could all fall apart because of a silly little feud between two once-friends is enough of a threat to force me to overcome my own selfish desires.

"Oh yes! Sweet as! I'm a bloody X-Man! Oh, we are nailing this," says Alex as she melts through the wood, into the cold earth beyond. "Sorry. I'll see yer..." she says to her corpse as the earth pulls us into a gravelly embrace.

* * *

Cardiff. Morning. Not good, but Alex is oddly zen.

As one we walk along through the destruction, body after body line the streets like morbid Christmas decorations. They hang from buildings, lamp-posts and bridges. They slump in crashed cars. They litter the streets. They clutter the corners. They mark his territory. He's been busy.

We don't care. We just need to find Hal, knowing Tom won't be far. I know where I last saw him so I coach Alex in that direction, hoping he hasn't strayed too far.

The pub is in chaos, glass and blood and dust and bile rain inside. Alex doesn't hesitate. She is inside in an instant. She doesn't even need to make a move to end the attack when she arrives. A surge of desperate love pulls the stake from Tom's hand. Ending the conflict. Saving the world. Love is a powerful thing. "Alright, ladies, we need to talk," she says. And talk they do.

She is remarkable, the way she handles them. I realise that whatever she says it doesn't matter. Whatever Hal is, and what ever Tom stoops to, she will love them both. That gives her immense power, more than the Devil will ever have, more than I can have now. I wonder, when it's done, will I even remember what love is? Her emotions tingle in me, they sting. It shuts the demon up for a second, sends it cowering into the corners. It reminds me that I'm not all gone, not yet. There is a little of Belinda Weaver left. A little of that spark of humanity. The spark that loved Hal, Colette, Isabella, Alex, Tom, even Richard. She's not gone, not quite. Not yet...

"You need to see what's happening outside!" Alex says.

* * *

And so we reach the Television station; Hal, Tom, Alex, united against the great Beast. I know how this is going to turn out, but I can only hope I am wrong. I can only hope that this little ritual will work this time, that Belinda's Plan B won't be required, but I have a horrible feeling this isn't going to end well.

They pass through the mess he's made. The desolate stink of death bounces off the walls of the place. I can smell it. That's a bad sign. With every step I can feel that coolness Alex has carried since she pulled herself free is slipping. But it's not rage that fuels her right now, no the sin that bubbles is vengeance. It's a more palpable power than wrath. Vengeance is solid, committed and focused. There is no chaos to it, no desperation, only single-minded determination. I can feel it fuel me. I'm eager to gain purchase on the world now.

Hal hisses at the humans who block their path to the Devil.

"Hal, don't. They're still human," Alex orders. Hal listens!

Tut-tut, doesn't she know? They won't be for long. The Devil rises from his throne, he approaches. I have to say, he looks a lot better. We're going to have such fun. _No! Alex, leave, take Hal, take Tom...Leave! It's not going to work. Please!_ Shhh, now, just a few minutes and everything will be all better.

"A hundred years," the Devil says, "trapped in this broken body. A hundred years of aching bones, skin like dust and getting up five times in the night to pee, and do you know what kept me going? Knowing I'd see you again and pull out your hearts. And then one day you stroll into the hotel, with a werewolf! Talk about a get out of jail card. All I needed to do was pour a little pestilence into your ears and here we are."

"We're united nah, you can't use the power of us fightin' any more," Tom says.

Silly doggy. Silly, silly doggy.

"United, really? Because I'm getting resentment, fury, hints of heartbreak."

"Doesn't matter. We won't let you win," says Hal.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, we'll see." He looks to Alex, "Oh, Hello, you found your way back then?"

Was that directed at Alex...or me? I'm here! I want to scream. Yes! I'm here!

It is Alex, rage boiling now, who answers and encourages the Devil to fill them in on his plans. Each word that falls from his lips is like fuel on the quiet fire raging within the ghost to whom I cling. His convivial disregard for the world and its inhabitants scratches at her morals like acid. I can feel myself riding the emotions like a wave. So close now...

"... Crikey, look at the time. Slit the young fellow's throat if they try to stop me," the Devil instructs his mindless minions. _He doesn't try to kill Hal...does he know? _Know what? _Nothing._

"Hatch!" Hal interrupts, "Blood of the wolf. Blood of the Vampire. Ring any bells?"

"Do they know what this means?" the Devil probes, knowing full well Hal has kept them in the dark.

"We do." She doesn't. _Run!_

I'm getting quieter. I can barely hear myself...

"Yeah...what's it mean?"

_Please!_

"Oh, Hal, didn't you read them the small print? Nobody gets out of this alive. Not even you, dear. The ritual kills all participants, and we skip off to oblivion together hand in hand."

_Go! _

"It's true. But we don't care, do we chaps?" The little cap from the bottle of Tom's blood bounces on the floor.

"I'm up for it if you are?" Tom whispers. He doesn't sound very sure.

_A_...

"Let's roll," Alex swallows. Hal mixes the blood, it effervesces in the silence. Do it! Do it! Do it! I cheer with amusement, knowing full well it won't do any good at all.

_L_...

"Drink it," Hal instructs his friend, handing her the bottle.

_E_...

Alex looks at in horror. If her stomach could flip, it would have. "Umm... I can't," she snipes.

"Trust me." Trust him! She takes the bottle, looking down at the bubbling blood with morbid curiosity.

_X..._

"Any last requests?" Hal japes, "Actually, forget it. I don't give a shit."

"Ohh, dear," says the Devil and fires the starting pistol on the Apocalypse.

_Nooo!_

** "Bang!"**

* * *

I open my eyes and there...There I am! In front of Him. Real. Manifest. Solid. I turn, on the floor at my feet there lies Hal, Tom, and that is it. The ghost is gone, I'll let the Devil take care of her. She has served her purpose. Her soul can bounce around in oblivion for all I care, I have form now, shape, purpose.

The Devil smiles. And it is good.

"Hello, my dear," he says.

He comes closer, barely acknowledging the bodies at my feet, though I am fully aware he is working his magic on them while they sleep. He holds out his hand, I prostrate myself before him, kissing his fingers, feeding them into my mouth as if they taste of ambrosia. To taste! To feel! To sense! To be! Oh, it is magnificent. I can't wait to take this body out for a test ride.

"And when I saw her, I wondered with great admiration," he smiles. "Do you know your name yet, dear?"

"Oh, I'm No-one," I wave, flippantly, "No-one In-particular."

"Then I name you Babylon The Great, the mother of harlots and abominations of the Earth," he says, and then adds, with a wink, "And I must say, I'm damn glad you're a looker, because it would be dreadfully awkward otherwise."

"Babes, firstly, _loving _the threads, you've got this whole Dick Tracey vibe going on which is just so-in it hurts. Secondly," I smile, winding myself around the Devil like Jessica Rabbit riding a Beta-blocker high, "**you** can totally call me _whatever_ you want. Now, let's get this naughty Apocalypse started, shall we?" I wink, bite his ear, pop a kiss on his dapper cheek and laugh.

This is going to be such fun!


	17. Desperate times

**Part 2 - While you are sleeping**

* * *

**Chapter 17 - Desperate times**

_Non! Rien de rien ..._

_Non! Je ne regrette rien_

_Ni le bien qu'on m'a fait ni le mal_

_Tout ça m'est bien égal!_

The dulcet tones of Edith Piaf spill from the polished oak phonograph. They dance around Colette's bedroom, knocking dust from the curtains, inspecting dark boxes, stroking silk sheets. The notes fill the room with a taste of memories of France, long repressed. Colette realises it is ridiculously cliché, but there is something about this song that strengthens her resolve in times like these. Times like ten o'clock on a shitty english day, when she needs to galvanise some kind of strength of will prior to the arrival of her guest. It is so hard to keep up the charade of coquettish charm whilst all she really wants to do is feed.

She stands close to the old phono, closing her eyes and drinking every desperate and passionate note from the old trumpet. She closes her eyes, swallows, and reminds herself that she has come so far since helping Hal to escape over half a century before._ Non! Je ne regrette rien_, she tells herself.

It was not long after Hal had 'died' that Colette, taking a leap of faith, had sold her beloved Le Désir Rouge to Hal's old business partner, one Mr Richard Turner.

Things had begun to fall apart quickly once he had left. She was not able to keep it running after Hal had gone. She told Richard that her clientele had evaporated, that many had 'upped sticks' to Bristol with Herrick, and although her business had suffered she didn't fancy abandoning the city, which had cradled her for so long, and starting again elsewhere. A new life awaited her! That was what she told Richard anyway. The truth was that she had missed Hal. He had started as an exciting business opportunity, grown to become a source of protection and an undeniable pleasure, but had ended up as something completely different.

The events of that night had led Colette to reassess so much of her life. Despite the feelings in her gut, and the insistence of Linny and Izzy, until it actually happened Colette had never truly believed that an Old One, especially one such as Lord Harry, would be able to turn their back on the murder and mayhem that vampirism engendered. When she was proven so spectacularly wrong, and had been confronted with the realisation that even Hal could not only _want_ to change, but that he might actually succeed, everything she had been was suddenly called into question.

She had never relished killing, but she had believed that it was part of what she was, and that was that. Hal had shown her a different way. She had recognised the change in him back then, though it was subtle at first. Lingering kisses, a desire for closeness when before there had been none, his weariness for the vampire lifestyle. Then he had asked her for help, and if it hadn't already been part of the plan, she wouldn't have been able to refuse him anyway.

_Non! Rien de rien ..._

_Non! Je ne regrette rien..._

_C'est payé, balayé, oublié_

_Je me fous du passé!_

Losing both a favoured lover as well as a healthy livelihood might have caused other vampires to seek succour within their worse natures, but not Colette. She decided upon a different path at the time when weakness seemed so seductive. Why? She had something that encouraged her stronger side; specifically: someone. The mellifluous Ms Belinda Weaver, Linny, a ray of hope in an otherwise bleak time. She and Colette had set about trying to become clean themselves. Izzy had assisted. They chose to leave blood and killing behind them. It worked, for a while. They found a quiet spot, enjoyed life together. It had been bliss, for a while at least, but it could not last forever. _Ne pensez pas que maintenant, Colette._

Linny had disappeared, no note. Izzy too. Colette has always imagined the worst. She knows Linny would not have just gone, not without a message, or something! She presumed a 'proper death', as Hal's old cohort Cutler used to call it, had found her lover. She just hoped it had been quick. She had mourned. It had been messy.

She returns to Madam Piaf. It is not wise to recall old heartbreaks at times like these!

_Balayés les amours_

_Avec leurs trémolos_

_Balayés pour toujours_

_Je repars à zéro ..._

Even Edith cannot helping this time. She is unable to stop recalling old aches. It has been worse recently. They shake themselves to the surface when she is hungry.

After losing her partner in sobriety, life had been harder than Colette had imagined. Alone, and without anything to ground her, she had struggled to stay on the wagon. After more years of trying and failing than she could count, it was in the late seventies that she had finally resolved that drinking blood did not mean she had to kill to get it. She had decided that willing donors were all that was wanted, and if there was one thing Colette knew how to get, it was what she wanted.

So here is where Colette finds herself, living comfortably, thirst sated and clean of conscience for over forty years.

"Put the past away! Mettez le passé loin, Colette!" she orders herself out loud over the scratched strains of trumpet and strings which burst from the phonogram.

_Non! Rien de rien ..._

_Non! Je ne regrette rien ..._

_Ni le bien qu'on m'a fait ni le mal_

_Tout ça m'est bien égal!_

The arm on the record reaches the heart with a spit and skips, plunging her memories into a cold silence. She picks up the needle hurriedly and replaces it at the beginning. She needs to listen just once more before her dinner arrives. Once the reset is complete and the bouncing trumpets begin Colette pulls herself away and opens a drawer full of make up. She is adept at applying her armour of powder, blush and lipstick as any hardened warrior slipping blindly into the trappings of war. After applying the finishing touches she glances at the clock.

Her client is late, and that annoys her. He is one of her "special" customers, and she doesn't relish the thought of waiting for a drink for much longer.

Sex for money is a concept Colette grew to understand intimately; in essence, she considered it only to be a transaction between two parties. A mutual exchange of benefits. Through this simple transaction the men in Colette's life both provide financial security, through the exchange of money, and ensure she can safety control that burning desire to kill, by paying in blood. The latter, of course, often took some persuasion, but Colette had been successfully exploiting men for a very long time.

Her throat burns as the hunger flares. It would not do to attack a client in the middle of a transaction! The gramophone skips into unexpected silence again, static bristles in place of melody. She walks over to it and thumps it soundly.

"Bloody old, piece of.."

"Colette?!"

Colette squeaks in horror, clutching at her chest in shock, as a disembodied voice trumpets out of the old horn. "Mon Dieu! C'est quoi ce bordel!?"

"Oh, come on, you know I don't speak French," the voice complains in response.

It takes a moment for Colette to recognise it. It can't be? Can it? "Izzy?"

"Of course it's me. You know this would be so much easier if you had a television! Are you busy, we have a problem."

"All this time! You disappear out of the blue fifty years ago and now you want to chastise me for not having a television? Where are you!" she demands. "What on earth are you doing in my gramophone?"

"Where do you think I am? The Other Side! I need your help, Linny's dust," the ghost blurts out urgently.

The final confirmation of Linny's final demise hits Colette in the stomach. She had presumed her death, certainement, but had she accepted it? Clearly not. Until now there had always been a little hope. On dark days she liked to dream of Belinda sunning herself on the beach in some glorious paradise as they had always planned.

"You tell me this now, like this? You have had fifty years! Your timing is truly abysmal."

Her poor client is in terrible danger right now. Colette tries to hold on to her mask but feels it slipping. What hurts most is that Izzy knew how important their relationship had been. To reveal the death of her old lover so bluntly seems almost cruel. She bites her tongue and takes a breath to calm herself.

The distant voice suddenly stutters with remorse, "Shit, I'm sorry. I...shit, how to tell you...Colette, it wasn't fifty years ago," Izzy says.

"What?"

"It ...it was a few weeks ago."

**"What!"**

"She staked herself, apparently. Like, right in Hal's living room!"

"Mon Dieu! Hal?"

"I'm sorry, really, I thought you knew she was still...didn't she tell you? She told me she said goodbye."

"What was she doing with Hal?" Colette asks to avoid the subject.

"It's complicated. Look, I can't do anything about it, not while I'm stuck over here. I need you to come and get me out."

"Get you out! How exactly do you propose I do that?" Questions plough through Colette's mind, drowning out the shock and horror in a noise: She didn't die? She just left? Why would she do that? All this time she had been alive? "Anyway, what can we do about Linny now, even if I did? If she is gone, she is gone and we can only accept that she is dead."

Izzy turns desperate, "I can't accept that. She's important. We need her! Getting me out will be easy, I've done it before. I'd do it on my own but apparently, because I went through my own door originally, I can't leave without a knight in shining armour coming to rescue me. That's you. The only tricky part will be ﬁnding a door to get you over here. We'll need a death you see, but then, you're a vampire so I suppose that won't be hard at all. Not that I agree with the killing. I mean, like, if you were going to do it anyway..."

Colette stops Izzy right there, "I do not kill. I haven't for a long time and I am not about to again." She sighs and adjusts her tone, knowing that the ghost meant no offence. "Look, this is ridiculous! What can we possibly do about Linny? If she really is dust then that is it. There is no coming back from such a thing. Non, I cannot go to purgatory. Pas du tout."

"I'll explain everything once you get your arse over here. Please, it's important!"

"Izzy, you are asking a lot without explaining yourself. Purgatory might seem simple to you, but it is... Let us say that it is not exactly an enticing prospect." Colette shivers and rubs her arms, remembering her glimpse of the men with sticks and ropes when she died almost two hundred years before. Could vampires come back from there?

"If you won't do it for me, do it for Hal. This is what SOPHY is supposed to be about all along, Colette! This is what you signed up for! To protect him, mostly from himself. He's slipping Colette, I can feel it. He is teetering on the edge and I don't know how long it's going to be before he falls off and becomes the man we knew before, except so much worse. After that...shit, all Hell is going to break loose, Colette! Literally. We need you. Hal needs you. I can't help anyone from here. We have to finish what we started."

Colette pauses. She listens to the static buzz and hope of Izzy's distant hope. She thinks. The idea of going purgatory fills her with the kind of fear she hasn't felt for a very long time. A selfish part of her thinks back to the sacrifices she has already made for a man whom she really hardly knew, and for a woman who clearly left without a care for her affections. No. She decides. She has done enough! This risk is just too great.

"I'm sorry, Izzy, really I am, but no. I can't take a chance like this simply because you have a 'feeling'. It is too much of a risk. Perhaps after this long Hal can look after himself? If 'Seigneur Harry' really is returning, we must just hope that Hal is strong enough to resist this time. I must look after myself."

"Please!" the ghost pleads.

Colette hesitates again before answering, unsure that she has made the right decision, but fear wins out in the end. "I can't, Izzy. Not purgatory. Not that place. Je ne peux pas!"

"Well..." Izzy huffs with sadness. A deep sigh echoes around the room before the ghost returns, adding, as if as an afterthought, "Thank you, Colette. You know, I suppose I was wrong. I'm sorry to have interrupted your busy schedule." The sound of her disappointment is painful.

"Izzy, s'il te plaît! It is not that I am not dedicated, I am just... scared. Izzy? Izzy?"

The ghost has already gone. The gramophone falls silent and all Colette can do is stare at it and curse at the ghost. "Merde! Fantôme exaspérant!"

Colette drops onto her bed. She tries to gather her thoughts and forget about the imminent arrival of her client. It has been decades since she has seen Izzy, years since SOPHY was last a topic of conversation. This was all so out of the blue. On top of that she was still reeling from the news that Linny was dead! Properly, really, actually, confirmed dead. _And_, on top of that had apparently dumped her, fifty years ago, without notification.

"Salope!" Colette swears half-heartedly.

It was too much to take in.

There is a rap at the front door. No time to dwell. Take-out has arrived.

Colette tries to shake herself from her rumination as she stands, straightening her chemise. The silk and lace of the sparse outfit are trivial, only there for effect. It is the smile that she puts on as she walks to the door which makes the act complete.

"Mademoiselle," Daniel beams, openly ogling her as she lets him inside her home. She resists the urge to shake her head at his terrible pronunciation. It is a shame he is not better looking, but he fulfils the purpose Colette has in mind. She was not lucky enough to have all of her clients look like Hal. Average build, average height, average proclivities. Daniel was average in pretty much every way. No wonder the poor lamb had not had much luck with women! She could not dwell on feeling sorry for him. It had made him far easier to persuade to become a blood donor.

"Bonsoir, Monsieur," Colette smiles, holding out her cheek for him to kiss. She takes the pleasantry in a hurry before firmly pulling him inside and leading him straight to the bedroom, undressing herself as she travels. No time for foreplay today. The act awakens memories of Hal from sixty years before, his tendency to rush these things after bad news. Not that she had minded.

"Cesse de penser à lui," Colette whispers to herself.

"What?" Daniel asks with confusion.

"Oh nothing, Chérie. I was just saying 'that's very nice'," she lies. Sometimes the language barrier is an advantage.

Keeping up the pretence is second nature to Colette, but tonight it is something of a challenge. No matter how hard she tries to concentrate, all she can think of is her memories; the exchange with Izzy; of Hal; of Linny.

She relieves Daniel of a pair of tweety-pie socks.

If she wasn't dead why did Linny leave?

She hurriedly throws him down on the sheets.

Linny would never have just left!

She tears his trousers off and tosses them over the gramophone.

There must have been a reason! Why would she do that? They were happy! She needs to know. She has to know. Does Izzy know? Is what the ghost is eluding to really possible? Could they bring her back? Linny always did have a habit of being miraculous, but rising from the dead!? Colette can not see it herself, but if there is even the slightest chance...

"Is everything alright Colette?" asks Daniel, trying to get her attention. She ignores him.

She wonders if she has been too rash, putting Izzy off like that. She had joined SOPHY for a reason after all. If Hal needed help, she should do what she could. Shouldn't she?

"Only you seem a bit..." Daniel presses between some rather messy fondling.

Izzy might have a tendency to be an irritating know-it-all, but Colette is sure she wouldn't have contacted her unless their intervention was imperative!

"Seriously, Co..."

"Shh!" Colette hushes him, slapping her lips on his so that she can concentrate on her train of thought.

She weighs up her options, searching the ceiling for the answer and really not paying a whole lot of attention to the naked man around whom she is wrapped. Her eyes fall upon a small, oak frame on the wall opposite. Underneath the thin layer of glass sits a piece of paper with a single verse written in exquisite calligraphy. It is a quote from Flaubert that has stayed with Colette for decades, and has been a constant reminder of why she changed her life so drastically.

_"Je déteste mes compatriotes êtres et ne se sentent pas que je suis leur homme à tout," _it reads.

The last thing Hal said to her before he left.

She sighs. She pulls away from her protesting client. Her mind is made up. Purgatory is not a welcoming prospect, but in the end, it will be worth it! It has to be. She needs to be different, do something to make all that existence worthwhile. She doesn't want to just be another vampire in the pack. She needs to be different, special. Why? Because they thought she was capable of it, Hal, Belinda, Izzy. Was that not worth something?

Daniel's fingers dig into her hips. He grunts breathlessly, diverting her attention back to him. She focuses on his neck, it is so tantalizingly close to her mouth. He has no family, she thinks, no one to miss him. He has told her that in the past, she is sure. At least he will be happy when he dies.

She closes her eyes for a brief few seconds, allowing the blackness to come through and her fangs to unsheathe. He jerks when she bites him, but she makes it quick, compassionate despite the bloodlust that fills her. She makes sure not to drink too much, despite wanting to drown out the fear that purgatory has put into her. She needs to have her wits about her for what is to come, and time is limited. His door will come soon.

His corpse slides inelegantly to the floor. When she pushes him off the bed it lands with an average sized, distinctly disappointing, thud.

"What the...You... you killed me! You _actually_ killed me. Bitch! I thought we had an agreement?" Daniel's horrified voice pipes up as his ghost stares down at his body, curiously self conscious about his nakedness now that the afterlife is so very close.

Colette picks up her chemise, from the floor, with the haste of satisfaction. She uses it to wipe his blood from her mouth and chin.

"I'm sorry. Your death may have saved many others...in the long-run. I know that is no consolation, but it is the best I can do," she explains and she dresses hurriedly, fixing the clasp of her skirt and grabbing for a red silk blouse as his door arrives on cue.

Daniel looks at it in wonder. "Is that for me?" he asks, walking towards it slowly, mesmerised.

"Yes," Colette answers, distracted by a hurried attempt to pack the essentials. What does one take to the afterlife? A toothbrush? She grabs a long, charcoal coat from the back of her dressing table chair and slips on the only pair of shoes in the vicinity, the crimson stilettos she wore to greet Daniel at the door. She is vaguely pleased that they match her blouse perfectly. If she is going to see either of her lovers again at least they will both appreciate the effort.

"Do I go through?" Daniel asks. He really is not very smart for a City Banker.

"Take a guess, Chérie," she says coming to stand beside him, just a few feet from the simple, white painted door. It glows with a bright light, shining around its edges. Suddenly she grabs for her perfume and mobile phone from the near dresser. Just in case.

"What's on the other side?"

Colette thinks for a second before replying.

"Redemption," she lies again.

They step through together and the door closes behind them.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks to Ms KatyNewt and Ms ShoePigeon for their huge contribution to this chapter. **


	18. A New Hope

**Chapter 18 - A New Hope**

"Tat-ta-dada!" Alex grins, whipping out a cellophane-wrapped jeweled case from behind her back. She displays her find like a show girl, with pride, letting it reflect the sunlight through the blinds. I can hardly see what it is, and not only because I am distracted, more than a little, by the beauty of Alex in that light.

"What's that when it's at 'ome, then?" Tom squints, leaning forward on the sofa to see what could possibly have inspired such excitement in our housemate.

"A DVD!_ Star Wars: A New Hope. Episode IV,_ digitally remastered baby! Found it in the shop 'fiver' bin, been waiting for the right moment te crack this baby out. And now, my friends, is the time."

"Awww, do we 'ave to?" Tom grunts and folds his arms.

"It's Sunday. A _normal, _human, boring, awesome Sunday. That means DVDs, hangovers, and...fuckit...gravy. Whatever."

"I'm not hungover," I point out. I have yet to attempt inebriation in my new state. I'm a little uncertain whether I ever shall. It doesn't appeal.

"And you finished the gravy two days ago, by the bowl." Tom points at the kitchen, the cupboards are practically bare. We are a house sans Bisto. It's understandable, given the recent circumstances. We have been human a whole week. Alex has spent the time eating, bathing and calling strangers on the phone. She also achieved employment at the hotel thanks to a good word from the manager, still me. Tom has mostly been on internet dating websites and has been signing up for every class going at the Library and the College including ante-natal, knitting and welsh. I have been donating blood by the arm-full, and have managed to get on the radar of the local independent politicos in the process, we're now talking about a Barry Island national conscious rejuvenation campaign, sort of a 'Don't worry, it's not _that_ suicidey' thing. On top of that there are mentions of me possibily running for the local council. It's all happening so fast. Well, most things, Alex and I are taking it slow.

I'll take the loss of our larder stocks as a small sacrifice for no longer being mostly a corpse.

"Still," Alex says, as if this is all the argument required. Clearly whatever protests myself or Tom can find are going to fall on deaf ears.

"Should we not begin with the first one?" I ask. I may be a little behind the times, but even I can fathom that not starting from the logical beginning of the story may cause some confusion, at least for Tom.

Alex rolls her eyes and snaps open the case. "Episode four _is_ the first one."

"Well that don't make no sense, 'Lex. Raise your hands if you want Antiques' Road Show back on."

Tom and I raise our hands.

The recently averted Apocolypse _had_ rather interrupted our routine. Luckily Alex had put our favourite shows onto series record when we had first taken employment at the Barry Grand. Thanks to the discovery of a channel ironically called 'yesterday', Tom was right, there were about fifty episodes we needed to clear from the box before the new series starts. Not to mention 'Cash in the Attic'. It was a hell of a daunting mission to accomplish, but we've faced worse. A mountainous collection of television to get through is about as much adventure as I am willing to endure right now.

"Whatever, look, you're both still way behind on the list. We're watching this."

"Of course, there's a list." I frown, dropping my arm onto my thigh. Tom's arm remains upstanding in hope. "I thought we talked about these lists."

"Aye, but you didn't think I was going te let _this_ one go by, did you? I mean: EPISODE FOUR!" she taps the box with repetitive resolution. "Best. Movie. Ever... Fact."

I stare.

"Shit, you did that that, didn't you? This is different, I mean, do you know how shameful your knowledge of popular movies is? You've no' even seen Titanic!" she flaps.

"Please tell me you're not going to make us watch Titanic too?"

"They didnae have it in the fiver bin."

"So, we're not going to watch Antiques' Road Show?" Tom asks innocently. His arm is still in the air as he looks between Alex and I. "'Cause I thought there was a rule n'all about two versus one. Didn't we make a rule?"

"No."

"Yes!" I argue, "We made the rule. It was the first thing, in fact, on _Annie's_ list 'for a harmonious household', or something. I'm certain we could find it here somewhere."

"Well, I didn't sign up to any rules when I agreed to stay, Hal." Alex folds her arms. The fact that I am quietly appreciating the way they frame her upper body puts my argument off its stride.

"Let's watch it," I say to Tom, suddenly, smiling at Alex who knows she has won by the simple means of just being her.

"What?" Tom asks. His arm drops like a stone.

"It'll be...different." I was trying to sound upbeat. "It'll be good."

"You mean it!" Alex hops with joy.

"Yeah." Upbeat, Hal, upbeat. "Let's do it." Big grin. "I want to watch...Really."

With a dance, Alex is back beside me on the sofa, remote control in hand. She claps her hands, grabs a blanket, sweeps it over our knees with the confidence of a matador and holds me close. Her hands wrap around my torso. "Thank you, you won't regret it." Alex kisses me on the cheek she says before resting her head on my breast-bone. This is a big step.

Thank you Episode IV. I look over at Tom. He grins at us both.

"This'd better be good," he laughs as Alex presses 'play'.

* * *

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away...

* * *

Reams of yellow Franklin Gothic fontface scroll into space. It's interminably slow. Even David Lean wouldn't have got away with this kind of opening. So far, I am not a fan.

"A Prologue?" I whisper in Alex's ear. "Is that really necessary?"

"Shh."

"They changed font now. Demi, condensed...bold!"

"Shh."

"It's just sloppy. If you're going to take up five minutes of the film with..."

"Seriously. Henry, Shut the fuck up."

A cold shiver runs over me. I hate it when she calls me that.

Tom breaks the silence, "I like the music, like, it's grand."

"Four period points is not how you create an ellipsis. This an American film, isn't it?" I point at the screen in outrage. "I don't watch American films unless there's a musical number. That should be on _my_ list."

Alex hits pause with a violent rage, "Oh My God! Yes, it's American. No, there's no musical number and, fortheloveofPete, it doesn't matter what font they use. It's cool. It's about space ships, and good versus evil, and big-kick ass Deathstars, and baddass cowboys and robots and Obi-Wan-freaking-Kenobi! And if you don't shut the hell up and enjoy it I swear to holy hell I will..."

I raise an eyebrow. "What, exactly? Stake me." Okay, so I'm not entirely over the fact that they were planning it before hand.

"I'll...i'll leave. That's what I'll do. How d'you like them apples?"

Tom coaxes her back to relax. "Calm down, Alex, it's only a film. We'll watch, all quiet and respec'ful like, won't we, _Hal_."

I nod and so she settles, hits play and soon the text on the screen is replaced by a giant ship firing at a little one.

"'Kay, that was cool." Tom grins.

Alex looks at me, hoping for validation.

"Yes. I agree. Quite." She settles back against me as a reward. It was a little white lie that feels eminently worth it. As a series of persons in various ugly helmets do futile battle in tight corridors, seemingly presided over by the two most hapless robots created, I quietly begin to appreciate Alex's Sunday plans.

She is warm. I run my fingers through her growing hair, it smells of lemons when I disturb it. We're sharing the same shower-soap to save cash, its the zesty zingy one. I'll admit it smells better on her. To have her hold up against me, her muscles tensing with each little excitement in the film. To have her look up at me, from where she leans her head against my chest, hopeful that I am enjoying this experience she has brought to my old-eyes. To feel her body rise and fall in my arms, breathing, in and out. To have her heart, beat, against my own, and not want to claw it out. Every moment is perfect. We could be staring at a while wall, like this, and it would still be perfect. In truth it didn't matter what we watched, just that we were here, the three of us, together, alive. More than alive. Human. I could never have dreamed such happiness was possible.

"The robots need space guns," Tom says.

I exuberantly agree, "Yes! Or at least a form of bat."

"The little one could easily sneak up on the bad guys and take out their knees, either way. Are the white blokes robots too? I can't tell," Tom asks Alex.

"These soldiers clearly have had no battle training," I sigh. "The Empire is done for." Alex grins at me, realising that I have been paying attention and picked up all the necessary plot related gubbins from the opening crawl, despite criticising the design aesthetic.

"The little one is R2-D2, he fixes stuff." Alex explains, "They aren't going to give him a gun."

"Well, they should have," I explain, agreeing with my friend. "I don't think they're really serious about winning."

"I'd 'ave given the robots a gun, like, makes sense," says Tom.

Alex ignores us, "And the other one is C3PO. He...well I'm not sure what he does, but he's fluent in over like a billion forms of communication though...and he's dead polite. Hey, he's a bit like you." Alex smacks me on the thigh. "'Cept, you know, he doesnae lie to his mates, kill people and go all schizoid on the Alliance."

I loose my smile. It's not going to be quick that she gets over that then either? I suppose it's a fair retaliatory statement, after all I did make a jibe about them planning to stake me. I let it slide. I don't want to fight.

Tom laughs then realises what that makes him, "Wait does that make me the short one that fixes stuff."

Alex shrugs, "Guess so. That's cool though. He's the best."

"I think you just offended me," I joke, hoping to come across cool and nonchalant.

"You'll get over it, sweetheart."

"So, if I'm the little one," Tom continues, scratching his head, "And Hal's the camp one..."

"Hey!"

"...then what are you?"

"Shhh. Darth Vader's big entrance is coming up. Totally a moment."

A character in a black cape, coping with asthma, and sporting the worst helmet of the lot, strides into the smoke charismatically. Tom and I watchi in silence.

"Okay," I nod, when he's gone. "I'll give it you. He is quite cool."

"Do you know how nice it is to hear you say that and not have it sound like you're reading out loud from an early ninties copy of smash hits?" Alex asks.

"No. I didn't," I smile, being somewhere down the middle of my previous self clearly has some advantages. This was not one I had fathomed on. Am I actually able to have a normal conversation now without sounding like an idiot? Alex leans up, this time she actually kisses me. Just a small one, borderline friendly, on the lips. I try not to appear either too stunned, overjoyed or uncool.

She winks, "It's about _that_ nice?" she slumps back onto me, "Don' let it go to your head or anything though, I still like that you're weird."

I am about to respond when a beautiful woman appears on screen. She seems to be reprogramming the shorter robot. "Oh, her!" Alex points, "I'll be her."

"Is she the only woman in the entire film?" I ask dryly.

Alex thinks. She thinks quite hard. "Yeah, Pretty much."

"And that means all the men fall in love with her, don't they?"

"Pretty much."

"And then there's a love triangle? And at some point a rescue mission?"

"Are you going to watch it, Hal, or try and predict the whole film?"

"Fifty pence prize, first one to guess who she ends up with wins?" Tom pitches in, peering over Alex's head to catch my eye.

"I'll take that bet," I smile. I think I may have created a monster. Mental note: keep Tom away from Ladbrooks come payday.

"Boys, can we just watch the film now please?" Alex sighs.

* * *

As predicted the rescue mission is now go for the mouthy but ultimately useless Princess Leia, a woman who is 90% hairdo and 10% whinging. She seems to occasionally brandish a weapon but never hits anything of note. Tom and I have made several jokes about how we can see the similarity between her and Alex. Meanwhile Tom has upgraded himself from short robot to a character called Han Solo, who is 90% hairdo and 10% waistcoat. We fought momentarily about whether or not I could pass for Solo, until Alex insisted I was more like 'Obi Wan', given that I was an insufferable know-it-all on any day with a 'y' in it.

"Is that the part Alec Guiness is playing?" I ask.

"Beardy one? Yeah," says Alex.

"Okay, I'll take that. I saw him in _Kind Hearts and Coronets_ in 1949. Brilliant stuff. You've seen it, right?"

"No."

"Honestly, you lecture me about my poor knowledge of cinema and you haven't seen the greatest Ealing comedy ever made! My turn to start a list, I think."

"Does it have explosions?" Alex asks with a squinty pout, clearly unsure if I am a good font of cinematic recommendation.

"Yes, as it happens."

"'Kay. What's it about then?"

I shuffle, recalling awkwardly why it had amused me so much. Aside from the fact it was truly hilarious, I did have a particularly dark sense of humour back then, and killed half of the patrons after it had finished. It had put me in a good mood. "It's about a man called Louis Mazzini who systematically murders his entire family tree in order to become the tenth Duke of Chalmont. It's really very funny."

"Were you evil when you watched it?"

"A little."

"Kill anyone after?"

"One or two." I had promised to be honest to Alex about my past. She in turn had promised not to be shocked, offended, upset or bring it up in an argument. She said she would rather know than not know. So far we had little cause to bring up the subject until now.

"I'll pass," Alex snaps, sipping at her tea and pulling away from me a little.

Meanwhile, the dashing, if vaguely useless, Luke Skywalker has the furry monster in handcuffs. He is dressed as a surprisingly short 'stormtrooper' and they are walking through the aptly named 'Deathstar' to rescue the equally useless Princess.

"They'll end up together," I prescribe, digging a fifty pence from my pocket and sliding it onto the coffee table.

"Who?" Tom asks.

"Princess Lia and Skywalker. They're perfectly suited to each other."

Alex laughs.

"What did I say? Don't tell me she ends up with the other one. How predictable."

"You'll get it. Anyway, she loves Han, sorry Hal."

"Yes!" Tom cheers grabbing the fifty pence and waving it in my face. He kisses it and slips it in his pocket. It's only fair, currently I'm ten pounds up on Antiques Road Show Roulette. "How about that then, Obli Win!"

"It's Obi Wan," Alex corrects.

* * *

_"Where are you taking this thing?" _says the Imperial officer at the cell-block door.

_"Prisoner transfer from Block 1138,_" says Luke.

* * *

A sudden searing pain hits me in the back of a head like I've been thwacked around the skull with a cricket bat. There follows a deep pain in my chest, coupled with a biting pain in my wrists and arms. Am I having a heart attack? I'm having a heart attack! Shit, I gave too much blood. I knew it. I'm actually going into cardiac arrest. This is happening. Strange images flash before me. I scratch at my arms in horror, suddenly convinced I am bleeding out. I feel like they have been plunged in poison ivy. My shoulder aches too.

"Hal?" Alex yelps, as I jump up from the sofa in alarm. Another pain hits me, right between the eyeballs, light flash before my eyes. A face, a young man with dark hair, a grey suit, a wide leonine smile.

Tom grabs the remote and switches off the television. I grab for my heart. It's pounding like a piston.

"Hal! Shit, Hal? What's going on. Are you okay!"

_'Star Wars: A New Hope? The bit with the wookie?' I hear_. _'This makes you the wookie.' _I buckle to the floor, grabbing at my head in pain, it feels like someone is driving a ten tonne truck through it.

"Shit! Tom, get a bucket, I think he's going te heave. Hal, hunny, can you hear me? What's going on?"

"Who's...Stuart..." I mutter, the name keeps swimming in my head. Another blow catches me by surprise. My head feels like it's on fire!

_'I love you, Harry Yorke,'_ says a soft, caring voice, _'I always have, and I'm sorry. Goodbye, Hal.'_

I think I'm going to have some sort of fit. Tom arrives with a bucket which he hands to me. I grasp it firmly as something recent comes into focus. That woman from the night with the dog-walker. She winks, "What _are_ you?" I repeat, into the bucket,_ 'It'll come to you. You have a nice day now'._

Then I throw up. Flashes and strings and pieces of my memory suddenly weave together and there she is, fully formed, back where she belongs. It is as if she never left.

I land on the sofa, and try not to look at the contents of the bucket in case I want to throw up again. My head still hurts. Alex and Tom look at me in horror.

"Hal?" Alex asks with intense concern, "What the hell just happened, please tell me it's no' my cooking? I made sure it was all in date, I promise!"

I smile, laugh, and wipe the cold sweat from my brow. "Do either of you have any idea how I could _possibly_ have forgotten someone like Belinda Weaver?"

Alex's smile falls.


	19. Que Sera Sera

**Chapter 19 - Que Sera Sera**

When I was a just little girl, which feels a very long time ago, my Daddy, he said to me, "Belinda, you aren't smart. You won't amount to much, but you're pretty, and you will be rich. But, you'll find you need nothing more than that. We'll find you a nice husband, a smart man who will look after you, and the family business, when your mother and I are gone." It's safe to say I had Daddy issues.

The Devil kicks at the heals of the sleeping vampire and werewolf at our feet. Neither respond. He beckons his mindless studio-minions over. Four approach, lifting their somnolent flesh into their arms.

Hal is a mess. Tom is snoring.

I step away from the Devil, towards them. I slip my hand to the cheek of Hal's lolling head, smooth it around his jaw and lift up his chin such that I can look upon his face. "What are you going to do with them?" I ask the Devil.

"It's already done. They'll not be any trouble."

"You're keeping them alive?" I ask as I drop to my knees, between Hal and Tom, wondering which toy I get to have fun with first.

The Devil sighs, "And I think you know why. Don't play games with me. It's not advisable." I turn back to look at him. He smiles with all his teeth.

"Perhaps," I say, I feel like a kid in a candy shop. "But I just _looong_ to hear you say it." I place my hand upon the bloody smear on Hal's shirt and push it up. It is still damp, so is his stomach. I place the other on Tom's thigh. I can feel his heart beat, slowly. Their bodies ooze contentment at my touch. I slide my hands down towards their belt buckles.

"I'm on a tight schedule," the Devil says with a sigh, turning his back on me. His little brain-dead minions take a step back, pulling my quarry out of reach. "I wouldn't want you to do anything that would wake them, dear."

"Awww," I pout, sticking out my bottom lip like a shelf as I fold my arms and stand. "I'm flattered that you think I could."

The Devil tuts repeatedly and returns. He offers out his hand, which I take. "Your are destined for so much _more_, my dear, and should not trouble yourself with the base creatures of this earth. When we're done here, princes will shower you with gold, jewels; Queens will murder their children just to look at you; Kings will prostrate themselves before you; Politicians and Presidents will supplicate like swine; Nations will war for your grace; those who think themselves Gods will worship you. You will bring corruption where there was purity, filth where there was frailty, vice where there was virtue. There is a reason they will call you 'great'. Now, if I might continue..." he taps an imaginary watch upon his wrist and suddenly everything hums into life.

Cameras switch back on, blinking little red lights in the darkness. The lanterns in the upper eaves swing to spotlight upon him. Brainless minions muster to broadcast. I wait in the wings, watching with pride.

A woman counts her fingers down "Five. Four. Three..." she croaks, the last two words lost. The light on the wall clicks to '_On Air'. _

"Welcome back," the Devil says. I clasp my fingers to my lips in excitement. Watching him is like electricity. I can feel the excitement running up and down my spine, traversing the hairs upon my arms and dancing in my stomach. I place my hand where I should have a heart. With every word he speaks, every step he takes, I can feel it manifesting inside me, solid and warm and black with ambition. It burns like a hot stone in cold water. All that energy it creates as it grows fizzes and bubbles around it. I am eager to put to use. I think back to the petty ambitions of my human life, the pitiful waste I made of the vampire Hal made me, and then all those years tromping the earth trying to stop _this_! I am _not_ going to waste _this_ opportunity the same way. To be reborn this way is a gift that few creatures get to experience, but now he has risen, now he is strong. I can feel all that power drive into me like pleasure.

"Come closer," the Devil beckons.

My heart beats.

"That's it." The camera pulls in close.

My heart beats again. I turn, hearing footsteps, they are carrying Tom and Hal away. To where, I do not know. Do I care? I check, searching whatever is in my head to find an answer. I look left. I look right. I search my pockets, finding only the blood flask Alex had been given. No. Nothing. I really don't care a jot. Refreshing. All I want to do is get started. I think of all those men, women, vampires, werewolves, whatever, who survive this first cull, of how I can spoil them, of what fun that will be, of the myriad ways I can take what precious goodness skulks within them and corrupt it definitively. The Apocalypse is about momentum, humanity is at the top of a great mountain, perched, parked, waiting. The Devil is about to put his foot on the accelerator giving it 'that final push' as he called it. Once he drives humanity over that edge, the gas pumping, we will fuel the fire. With War and corruption and foulness, until the momentum pulses throughout and we can stand back and warm ourselves in the destruction; and _then_ the doors of Hell can be opened and all the corrupt and bitter souls, the tormented and tortured creatures will be able to dance in the chaos. It will be His kingdom then.

I'll bring the party hats and tooters.

I wonder if my Daddy went to hell. I can't wait to see his face when he comes up top!

"Right up to the television."

My heart beats repeatedly now. Alive, fully cooked. They can't stop me now.

"I've got a secret to tell you. Everybody loves a secret, don't they?..."

Suddenly the lights go out.

"Fuck," says the Devil.

* * *

Outside the television station a crowd of armed men run silently. Another crowd follow. Then a third. Their darkened helmets reflect the morning light as those heading up their ranks drive the troops to encircle the building. They give the satellite a wide berth until one approaches it at speed, deposits a small charge and then hurries away.

A count.

"...two, one."

An explosion. The satellite dish topples. When they announce it, "Clear!" a black sedan drives up. The door opens. A grey suited leg, with a crisp crease down the front, ends in a highly polished shoe. A second follows. A tall, blonde man exits the vehicle. He is stern. He has the face of someone who shan't be made a fool of again. He carries a cardboard box with a smile.

"Rook!" says a man within. "Dominic?"

Mr Rook turns back, "Sir?" he says, the disdain barely contained in his tone.

"Whatever it takes?"

"Whatever it takes, _Sir_, you have my word."

"But..."

"But '_what'_, Allister?" Rook enunciates, his eyebrows barely raise.

"But..." the Home Secretary's tone lowers, "...it's the fucking anti-Christ!"

"It's another monster, _sir_. It's my job. I'm sure we can contain this little disturbance and get everything right back on track before breakfast."

He closes the door and looks at the army reinforcements before him with precision. A troop leader jogs into place. "We've cut the power, Sir. No broadcasts from here today."

"Excellent." Rook reaches into his pocket and extracts two little foam cylinders. Cracking open the little bag he inserts the pellets into the trumpets of his ears and hands the box to the soldier. His voice is raised dramatically when he responds. "If you would kindly distribute these among your troops, instruct them to use them as soon as they enter the building. Many will die. You are aware of that, aren't you Sargent?"

The troop leader nods, "Whatever will be, will be, Sir."

"Very good!" Rook smiles, "Very good indeed."

* * *

Standing, in the darkness, the Devil frowns. I do not need to see him to feel his anger. The immediate and painful demise of the humans in his thrall is enough to feel it. They fall to the floor as he stands, and passes past them on his journey towards me. His quiet rage courses through them, each screams, grasping at their ears which pour with blood, as they collapse like wet sacks of disappointment on the cold, black floor.

He reaches into the lapel of his suit as he walks, extracting a little glowing talisman from his pocket. The harsh light of the mobile phone illuminates his features from below with a bluish hue. I see him then, in that body, the beast within. It is beautiful.

"Are you ready for Plan B?" he says. I see his little red eyes flash in the half light.

I smile, "I thought you would never ask!"

He taps at the phone, sliding his thumb to the numbers appearing there. He hits dial.

It rings.

_ring ring_

_ring ring_

_ring ring_

He hangs up.

Then it appears. A red door in the darkness.

It opens, just a little, and I know just what is on the other side. Beyond that door is my future, greatness, everything Daddy said I would never amount to.

And to think, I nearly gave all this up for love.


	20. You say 'Goodbye', and I say 'Hello'

**Chapter 20 - You say 'Goodbye', and I say 'Hello'**

Mid afternoon. The sun beats down relentlessly upon a lonely hilltop. It glances off the walls of the ruined castle, warming the stones, making them gleam as if they are brand new. Here and there sheep attempt to graze among the dilapidated stones. They clamber up the mountains of collapsed walls. They take and chew at the moss covered history, like eager archaeologists eager to uncover something of worth among the destruction. No sound can be heard apart from their occasional bleating, the gentle rush of a fresh wind in distant trees and, every so often, the chirrup of a swallow high in the atmosphere.

It was a very beautiful day.

It was a very beautiful place.

It was a very perfect moment.

At least, that is what it was. What it is now is Isabella's favourite place to be; a frozen, repeatable, episode in what passed for her life. A bite-size pleasure, ready for regular enjoyment. Reheated for her enjoyment. All the fun, none of the hassle. No surprises.

From her vantage point, at the top of a partially dilapidated staircase dappled with a carpet of struggling forget-me-nots and ivy, Izzy is able to see the entire county. The fields and villages, perforate the green blanket spread out around her until it falls into the sea.

Despite this Izzy is not focusing on the view. She is more interested in the two figures who are making their way up the hill slowly. They are an odd pair. The taller is a man who does not look well at all. His eyes are closed. His head is lolling. He appears to be just stumbling along, half conscious, with all of his weight supported by his companion. She is a young woman, at least that is what you would think at first glance, but in her eyes there is something quite different; someone who had seen so much of the worst things in the world that she had very nearly given up all hope. In the midst of all the sorrow there is a glimmer of fierce determination. It is that determination that is giving her the strength to keep walking. She clambers upwards, supporting a man twice her size, and succeeding despite her bare feet and practically non-existent clothing.

Izzy remembers this day so well, as if it had only just passed and had not occurred hundreds of years ago. She remembers the way Hal had trusted her completely; how he had let her lead him to wherever it was they were going; of the way she had worried about him, so very much. Some things never change.

They were halfway up the hill now, soon they would be at the top. She would manoeuvre him towards the north wall, the one that was still mostly standing and had offered the most shade. She would leave him there so he could get some rest. They had walked a long way. Then she would spirit down to the stream at the bottom of the hill to find him some water.

Ever since Izzy had figured out how purgatory worked, particularly what was behind the doors, this was the place she had spent most of her time, sitting on top of this staircase just watching this scene play out, again and again and again. Over and over, on repeat. Every other door she had looked through had led her to some moment in her life, or afterlife, that she was not proud of, that reminded her of the terrible things she had done. But this moment was different. She did not know why, and tried not to think that perhaps this perfect moment was somehow as bad as all the rest in some way? To Izzy, this was the moment that made all the terrible things worthwhile. It was the moment that proved that she had not been wrong to believe Hal could be saved, that beneath it all was...is a good man.

Here comes the shepherd boy, stumbling up the hill carrying his crook, making sure none of his sheep had wandered off. He spots Hal, like he always does, and approaches slowly.

Hal is on him within an instant, pinning him against the wall. Seeing him five minutes earlier, It would have been hard to believe Hal had the strength but Izzy, then and now, knew the monster in him would do anything to sate that hunger.

The boy screams. It pierces the air around them. Even after hearing it so many times it still sends a chill right down Izzy's spine. She remembers hearing it the first time, down by the stream, that feeling of dread that had settled in, just knowing what she was going to see when she returned to the hilltop.

There she is now, coming round the corner at speed. She stops when she sees Hal and the boy. She stands completely still, taking in the scene. Then, she turns away. Izzy can remember feeling so hopeless, so angry, so stupid. How could she have trusted him?! Why was she foolish enough to believe he was better than this?!Izzy, then, had turned away because she couldn't watch him kill again.

Izzy, now, keeps watching. Unlike her past self she knows what happened next.

He stops. He hesitates, for just a moment, and it is just long enough for something good to creep in. He lets him go. Hal lets the boy run away!

For the first time in a hundred and thirty-four years, he stopped himself!

Izzy didn't need to watch the next bit. The conversation they'd had, she was never going to forget it, and if she thought about it too much then she was going to start crying.

He had convinced her to turn around, to look back. She had expected the worst until he had told her what ha had done. He had never believed that he could do it but he had! He had held her, embraced her, and then...

There it was. Her door. They'd said a heartfelt and incredibly dragged out goodbye, and she left, passed over, left him to it.

Should she have? Maybe that was why this memory was here. Was it a mistake to leave him at all? How many lives might she have saved if she had not been so selfish? Was the worst thing she did to accept the temptation of salvation, it couldn't be, could it? Nah...

Besides, she had never left him alone. Not really. She had always been watching. Almost four centuries later and she was still watching.

She had not been stupid. She had known, before she left, that Hal would not be able to stay clean forever. She knew what that thirst for blood was like, ever since she had tasted it through him. There was always that little tiny part of her that wanted to do it again. She had resisted it, but she knew that it would be so much more difficult for Him. So she had made him promise that when he did, inevitably, fall off the wagon he would try again. She made him swear to keep trying, until one day he beat it.

That was four hundred years ago. And, admittedly every time he went astray, he had always kept his promise. He had always tried again, eventually. But every time he failed it got worse. She had never thought it would have taken this long for him to beat it, she… well to be honest she did not know what to think. Perhaps it was more of an insane hope than anything?

Sixty odd years ago she had decided to take a more active role in trying to save him and it had worked, really, really well, for a while but now he was slipping again. She could feel it. Everything that she had done, everything she had given up, for him, was going to be for nothing.

She looks down to where the memory is playing out again. Hal had just let the shepherd boy go. All of that was going to be for nothing.

And all because some poxy French whore was unable to pluck up the courage to do as she was told!

Izzy could save him! And so much more! The world was going to go to hell in a hand-basket and, to think, she had to just sit and watch! "Stupid, bloody cow," Izzy curses at a nearby sheep.

The sheep bleats.

"That's new," Izzy says, sitting up with shock.

The sheep bleats again and then goes back to eating the forget-me-nots.

"Seriously though, that is not supposed to happen..."

Something had changed. Something was different. There was a stirring in the air. Izzy had been in purgatory for so long she seemed to have, somehow, become a part of it, or it had become a part of her. She knew it like the back of her hand, how it worked, well, at least the parts of it that she had been to. There were some places, the darker places with the guarded doors, to which she would not dare venture. She did not need to visit them to know what had caused the disturbance she had just felt. Someone was here who shouldn't be. That someone, was a vampire.

Izzy rushes out of the door and back into the corridor so quickly that she stumbles and trips over her naked feet. Falling flat on her face fails to deter her for very long. She is soon back up and running. If Colette is really here then there is no time to waste!

She rounds a corner, stopping only a second to get her bearings. She was sure there was a phone box around here somewhere. It was so irritating to have died in the seventeenth century! There was no way she was going to find a phone, or any kind of electronic device behind any of her doors. She had to rely on the public stuff, and they were practically always 'out of order'. It was a nightmare to find one that worked, however, these days service is better than it used to be. Izzy could remember, back in the day, when if you wanted to get a message to anyone you had to write a letter. There was no mystic post box that got the message to where it needed to be instantly, like you would expect. No, you had to wait for someone to come round and collect it at the designated time and even then it would take forever for the message to get delivered. Izzy is convinced that she should have been born a good few centuries later, modern technology made everything so much easier. She would have fitted in perfectly.

"Aha, here we go," Izzy says, spotting a pay phone, graffitied, nearly falling off the wall, but crucially...she picks up the receiver ..a dial tone! "Bingo!" It works. Izzy does a tiny little dance, bouncing on the balls of her cold feet with joy. Admittedly, she thinks, she may have been on her own here a little too long.

There is no dial pad on these phones. Somehow they just know who you need to be put through to. If it was an internal call she would usually get patched straight in, but when anyone wanted to contact the outside world that meant being put on hold for forever and a day. Even the it didn't always work, which was one of the main reasons Izzy had been so irritated when Colette had said no to her request. She tried to think positive thoughts, getting irritated would help no one. She just hoped she only needed to get an internal call connected this time. If Colette had gone through one of her doors into a memory, and if that memory was one with some decent technology, the there was hope this would be quick. If not Izzy and Colette might be wandering the corridors for ever before they bumped into each other. The again, what if it wasn't Colette at all? What if it was someone, something else? That had happened before. Crossing all her fingers and bare little toes, Izzy picks up the receiver

* * *

Once they pass the threshold into Purgatory, Daniel finds another door just a few metres away. This one is painted green, like the entrance to someone's home. He opens it wide, looking back only briefly at Colette before walking through it. He beams happily.

Colette hopes he finds peace wherever he has gone. The light from the door fades as it disappears, suddenly making the corridor seem dark, claustrophobic. She takes a few searching steps forward, pulling her coat around herself to shield her arms from the cutting draught, which drives through the endless stretch, as she searches for any sign of the ghost.

"Izzy?" Colette calls, in vain hope of hearing an answer. "Izzy?"

She turns a corner only to be confronted with a door she knows well. "Ah. Ce doit être pour moi alors," she says with surprise, wondering with caution what might await her on the other side. It can not be the paradise she presumed awaited the human.

Colette grasps the handle with caution, taking a deep breath before she pushes it open and steps through into her beloved Le Désir Rouge.

The club is full to bursting. The night's festivities are in full swing as a dancer struts on the stage. She high kicks and blows kisses to the eager crowd, teasing them into a froth: Arianne. She was one of the first human girls that Colette had employed. Arianne had held her job for a year, which was a record among Colette's human employees. Then she was, unfortunately, killed by none other than...

A familiar hush falls over the crowd.

Colette knows what this memory is. It is the first time she had met Hal! She watches now from the sidelines, invisible to everyone it would seem, as a younger version of herself moves towards him. She sails across the crowd like a commanding ship, gliding through hungry, slavering patrons. Despite her calm exterior, Colette remembers just how nervous she had been in that moment. He had later told her that that had been a quality that had attracted him to her; that she was never fearful around him or, at least, that she had never showed it.

"Mon Seigneur," says her past, greeting him. She inclines gently to show respect, "it is a pleasure to meet you."

"Mademoiselle Molyneux, I presume," Hal says as he slips his coat from his shoulders and hands it out to an associate, "Your reputation precedes you. I wondered if I might discuss business with you?" Effervescing with charm, Hal reaches out for her hand as he speaks. He takes it and, smiling, kisses it softly. "I was hoping our ventures might become more intimately entwined."

Her younger self barely conceals a smirk. Catching the innuendo in his request, she offers some of her own in her reply, "But of course, Mon Seigneur, I am sure we could discover many mutual benefits in working closely together." She leads him through the room, encouraging Arianne to draw the attention of the crowd away from her new guests, "Allow me to show you to my bureau. My apologies, I mean my 'office' of course." Colette remembers only too well how flustered she felt at her mistake.

Hal laughed away the exchange, slipping into French with natural ease, "Pas besoin d'excuses, Mademoiselle Molyneux. Je pense que vous trouverez que je peux converser en français assez bien."

It had been so good to hear her native tongue, at the time Colette had almost leapt upon the opportunity to respond. The speed with which she spoke, now that she could witness it from the other side of the conversation, almost revealed her true feelings. "So I see, Mon Seigneur, très bien. This way, s'il vous plait."

She does not need to follow them to the office to know what was discussed next but, since it is the first time she has seen Hal since she watched him drive into the night with the werewolf, she follows. As the door shuts behind the three of them Colette positions herself in the chair behind the desk and watches her younger self pour Hal a glass of blood, as became part of their routine in later years. It slides into the glass like silk and makes her feel terribly thirsty, despite her recent gluttony.

Hal's flirtatious facade drops almost immediately as he drinks. He slips into a more work-related posture. "I'll cut to the chase, Mademoiselle Molyneux. I'm interested in forming a partnership with you."

"Please, Mon Seigneur, call me Colette," she asks, as if the gift of her first name is a privilege that few enjoy, as well as a way of diffusing his strangely business-like approach. "A partnership you say?" she asks as she raises a questioning eyebrow.

Hal nods. He understands the heavy flirtation in her response. He leans in, "Of sorts, Colette." The way he enunciates her name acknowledges her gift in an almost conspiratorial manner. "You're already aware of who I am, of course, and of my position. I am offering you and your establishment protection: from the law, from less congenial members of society, not to mention the violent and downright dangerous types that might cause, shall we say, 'trouble' for you and your girls. Trouble which would make it very hard for your business to operate. Of course, the regular patronage of myself and my associates would also be on offer."

She would not be able to turn down the proposal, even if it had not been welcome. He couched the idea as if he was giving her a choice. He was not. Mr Harry Yorke did not give people choices, even vampires. Vampire 'Protection' racket were no different to those the humans imposed on each other. It was just a question of extortion. She wondered what the price would be for such 'protection' from Lord Harry and his crones.

"That certainly sounds an excellent proposition, Mon Seigneur. But what, may I ask, is the catch?"

Hal laughs, clearly recognising that Colette is smarter than your average Madame. The way he straightens his back; the way his features glance with a smile; the way he settles, almost too comfortably, upon her desk, and places his glass upon her paperwork, tells her that much. He is taking liberties with her personal space, because he can. She had not appreciated it at the time, but knowing, as she now recalls, how generally subservient and dull-witted his colleagues had been at the time, Colette can appreciate how refreshing it must have been to have encountered someone who could not be so easily duped.

Hal waves away her concerns as if they are nothing, "Oh, very little, Mademoiselle. I would simply require the occasional return of information for these services."

"Information?" she sounds almost disappointed that this would be the price. "Nothing else?"

"Yes. Should you or any of your staff hear anything that may be of interest to me, you will let me know. Promptly. I have made more than a few enemies in the city over the years. If there is any network of spies I endeavour to have at my disposal, it is those in your line of work."

"I see, Mon Seigneur." Colette did not need to think for long, "I am sure myself and my girls will be more than happy to oblige, and to assist with any other desires that should come to mind, of course." She smiles congenially.

"You know, I think we will get on quite well, Colette. Here's to a long and successful arrangement." Hal raises his glass towards her. Her old self tops up both their glasses and they drink to the future.

Their future. Her past.

Suddenly the black Bakelite phone on the desk rings out. The shrill sound pierces the peace as the two vampires sip their drinks. Yet neither her past self, nor Hal, reacts. Entranced by the moment it takes Colette a second to recognise that this is not part of the memory. She sits bolt upright. "Cela ne s'est pas produit avant!"

After a glance at the still oblivious couple, who are now flirtatiously discussing just what other desires she had meant, Colette picks up the receiver and brings it cautiously to her ear, "Bonjour?!"

"Yes! Colette! Right, listen up...You. Me. Blood Barrel. Now!" Izzy's voice crackles down the old line with joy.

"Izzy? What? More importantly, how?!"

"Okay, listen very carefully, I shall say this only once..."

* * *

**A/N: Props to ShoePigeon and KatyNewt for much of the excellence above.**


	21. 99 problems

**Chapter 21 – 99 problems**

It hasn't rained. Ten days of humanity, in South Wales, in Spring, and it hasn't rained. Should I find this odd?

I slip my hand through my shirt buttons and try to find my heartbeat. There it is, delicate, full of endeavour; the humble heart of Henry Yorke. Over five hundred years old, and it is beating like it is a juvenile, as if I have just run to my first faire, seen the great rides and have gained a sudden and magnificent appreciation for the architecture of the Universe. It is so human, both immensely strong and tenderly weak; susceptible to coronary failure, indigestion and heartbreak. I close my eyes and enjoy the sensation of its thrum at my fingertips. Every time I do this I want to weep. Strange, that. Sometimes it is out of sheer joy, a reaction to the life before me. Sometimes it is from sadness, a recognition that I still don't feel that I deserve life after all that I have taken. Sometimes it is out of shock, much of me still cannot believe this little miracle. Let it be real. Please.

Someone kicks me in the shin; it is Alex, bearing two Ninety-Nines. She hands one out to me. The flake lolls in the melting iced milk that spirals atop the cheep cone like shaving foam. I feel my heart skip a beat when I see her.

"Penny for your thoughts?" she asks, supping on her own with those two cherry red lips of hers.

The wind is violent today, it catches us both around the ears on the shore-front. We pull out coats taught and Alex shields the ice cream with her hand to save us from loosing our dessert in the sand.

"I was just wondering…" I look at the forlorn ice-cream and remove my hand from my chest to receive the gift. "Wait, it's ten pm, how did you get ice cream at this time?" I look around for a van. There is one parked up on the road by the beach, from which Alex has returned to find me with my feet in the sea.

Alex grins, "I know, right! He was on his way home. Flagged him down. Lucky that. He said he'd do anything fer a pretty face." She winks.

"I thought you were mad," I laugh. "Running off with a craving for a 99 ice cream."

"Sorry, _you_ thought _I_ was mad? Now I've really heard it all."

"You left to get ice cream! You said you wanted…never mind. Of course, you're not mad. How could I have thought?"

"Let it never be said I dinnae know how te get what I want," Alex says. She whips the flake from mine and slips it in between her lips, sucking the ice cream away. She snakes her arm into mine, "You no' wanted that right?" she jokes.

I smile and shake my head. "It's a small price to pay," I admit and we stroll along the sand watching the little lights on the beach front flicker.

I listen to the waves. I would never call myself an 'outdoors' type, but there is something deeply humbling about the water. It draws itself in and out from the beach with each salty breath I take. I enjoy being near it. It reminds me how small I am, _this_ is, compared to the constancy of that tide. Even a creature as old as Snow would never live as long or be as powerful as the ocean. How minuscule we must seem in comparison to it. Even the Devil could have held no power over it. The corruption of man could neither knock the moon from its orbit nor dry the sea to salt. It brings me subtle comfort.

"It hasn't rained, you know?" I say absently, looking up at the perfectly clear night sky punctuated by infinite pink-pricks of light. The moon there is full. Tom is at home, enjoying not being a wolf, Alex had insisted we hit the beach. Here we are.

"Seriously though," Alex says after a moment of pleasant silence passes between us, "You've got that face on."

"That face?"

"Hal's broody-I-don't-want-to-talk-about-it-but-it's-prob ably-going-te-eat-me-up-inside-cause-I-won't-fess- up face."

"That's a thing?"

"Aye, and you're proper good at it too."

I shrug, "Perhaps."

"Perhaps," Alex mimics, "And perhaps ye should just spit it out."

I stop, tending to the ice-cream until my teeth go cold and Alex nudges me. "I was just thinking about tomorrow," I say.

"Oh."

"Oh, exactly. We could put it off a few more days."

"Are you asking me to?" Alex presses.

"I am. I'm asking. I know how important…"

"I said I would give it a fortnight, Hal, before I went to see my family. Don't you think I'm scared too? I'm bloody terrified. We booked us all the time off specially."

"I know, but," I am afraid she will stay with them, that I haven't done enough to convince her that there is a life here for her with us, with me. I have never been more afraid of anything. Really, I would give literally anything for her to put off the visit a little longer.

"But, what?"

"But," I bury my teeth in my ice cream again and run through the words in my mind. I have practiced this conversation repeatedly. "But, what is the point of having a heart if I can't use it," I say.

Alex doesn't say anything. She doesn't even laugh. She reaches to my arm, which she strokes, like I'm some kind of lost dog. Then she pats it.

"Cupcake, you'll find someone else to fancy if it's no' me."

I shake my head, "Now you're just being cruel."

"Look, I'm not saying I'll stay with my family, Truth is that I've no' decided. But that's beside the point. I mean, you've _seen_ yourself now, right? Trust me, if I'm out of the picture you'll be fending off the hens with a stick, babes."

"Don't say _that_."

"It's true."

"No, that, you sound like _her._ "

Alex realises her faux pas, "Sorry, some things have stuck. It's dead odd." She smacks her hand over her mouth, horrified. "Sorry, crappy choice of words. My bad."

I finish my ice-cream and hold out my arm for her to let her know it's alright. She takes it again and we walk in silence.

"Hal?" Alex says, but leaves the rest of the question lost in the wind.

"Yes?"

"If Belinda was still around, if she was human, would you..."

"That ship has sailed, Alex. She is dead."

"Thats's no' answering my question though, is it?" she led. She knew this was not a conversation I wanted to have, but nonetheless I had expected it. Ever since I recalled all I had lost.

"I can't hypothesise about the impossible, Alex." I have the horrible feeling that there is there something that she isn't telling me, but now is not the time to have that fight.

"Dude, we're human. Two weeks ago we battled Beelzebub with nothing but a hip-flask and some bluff. I came back from the dead, so did you, technically. So let's hypothesise about the impossible, shall we?"

I sigh. "Then no, I don't think I would be with her, if that's what you're implying, Alex. It would be too..."

"If you say 'awkward' that doesn't bode well for _us_," she says, trying to lighten the mood.

"I was going to say 'painful'. I caused her too much pain, and I can never forget that. I cared for Belinda, of course, deeply. That won't change, whether she were alive, or dead, or vampire, or ghost. But, in the end, when I think about her I mostly feel..."

"Horny?" she laughs.

"Guilty," I say, "It's no grounds for a successful relationship."

Alex kicks at the sand. She draws little shapes with the heal of her boot. I hope I judge her hesitation appropriately with my response, "I don't feel that way with you, Alex, at least not to the detriment of any other feelings."

Her face illuminates with a smile. In the distance the clanging bells of the arcade dance across the night, mixing with the crawl of the waves, the sound of our feet in the sand, the caw of the gulls in the darkness. "Besides, I would be very surprised to find her alive and well," I say.

"It might not just be us though, what if it's everyone?"

I had, of course, considered this possibility, and had dismissed it. "If it was then, by measurement of our present condition, the world would be noticeably overrun with the risen dead at the very least. That would no doubt make the news. It hasn't, so either Rook's old department is doing a grand job of covering it up, or it is only us, or..."

"Or what?"

"Oh, something else. I'm sure what, yet. Whatever it is, no vampire I have heard of ever returned death rafter being staked. No, I suspect this gift is ours alone to enjoy. Besides, I'm not about to search out any previously supernatural cohorts in order to check."

"Suppose it depends what happens if Tom gets the courage up to call Allison."

"I suppose. But it changes nothing for me. Belinda is still dead, you are still alive. I want to be with _you_, not her, and would feel no different even if fate had taken you from me and brought her to back to our door in one piece."

We turn to make our way back to the house. We cross our footsteps, mine with hers along side them, indented temporarily upon the world. The sea has mostly washed them away. Alex notes it too. She places her feet in the footsteps she has left behind.

"I haven't asked, how does it feel?" We haven't really spoken about it, this humanity we have suddenly grown, the awesome impossibility of it.

"What? Being alive again?"

"Yes."

"It's weird," Alex shrugs. "I can't deny I love it, but…" It is her turn to loose her words in the Ninety-Nine now.

"But?"

"I don't know. It's nice to be seen, you know, and this," she scoffs the last of the cone, slurping the remnants from the bottom with an un-ladylike suck. "It's totally brilliant. And this too…" She pulls me close, squeezing and tugging at the cloth and the flesh of me beneath, "This is pretty nice, to feel, I mean. To hold something in my arms, to feel the warmth and weight of it."

"I'm 'something' am I?"

"You know what I mean."

"There was a 'but'."

"But…oh, I don't know, fuck me, the super-powers were bloody brilliant. And it's no' everyone that gets to save the world, you know? That was pretty daamn cool, almost worth it, in fact. Like you said, it was a small price to pay. One gobby scot gets ghosted; world totally saved."

I laugh. "You are worth the world, that's true."

She blushes, it is beautiful. That has to be my favourite thing now, making her blush.

"What about you?" Alex asks with caution.

"What about me?"

"What does it feel like? Do you miss…"

"I don't miss it," I butt in. "How could you think that?"

"Sorry, yeah, of course, I didn't mean...But, what's it feel like then, for you?"

"Undeserved," I say without hesitation.

"We killed the Devil! I don't know, I think that kinda compensates for…"

"Nothing compensates, Alex, you still don't know about everything I did."

"That wasn't you."

"Yes, it was, Alex, it was always me."

She takes her arm from mine.

"Is this what you want? You want te spend this life you've been given beating yourself up for all the things you did in your past, because be my guest, but you need te realise that I'm no' dating someone that thinks it's okay to mope about like a premenstrual woman every cocking day. I want to _enjoy_ my life, Hal. Hanging around with a mumping mary is **not** my idea of living. I want…shit, I want someone who sings badly when no one thinks they are looking, and who …"

"So we're dating now?" I interrupt with a grin, pulling from her tirade the one word that mattered.

She stops, "Aye, if you want to call it that."

"I do."

"Doesn't mean I'm promising te stay though," she says suddenly, her beautiful elfin features fold with worry that perhaps she is getting my hopes up.

"No, of course not. I wouldn't expect that."

"Just, you know, in case anyone else comes sniffing around you can tell them we're dating, 'cause you realise I'll proper headbutt them if they try it on, right?"

"Right. I'm sure this isn't wholly fair though."

"It's fair enough."

"Can I at least persuade you to wait until Sunday to visit your family?" I ask, hoping I have made enough of a case to postpone the inevitable for one more day.

Alex doesn't look convinced, "Why?"

I reach into my pocket and pull out an envelope. I hand it to her. She takes it with curiosity, moving us both closer to the road so that the light from one of the lamps can illuminate the gift.

I try to explain as she opens it, "I heard you, in the shower, the other day. Honestly I was surprised to hear…"

"Hal, what are you talking about?" she slips her hand in the envelope and extracts what she finds there.

I continue, "…then when I was looking through the morning paper I saw that there was a performance, a one off, before the full tour in May. It's the WNO, with guest stars, at the Millenium Centre. I called three days ago and managed to get the last two tickets, box-seats too. I thought we could perhaps…what I mean is, if you would like to accompany me."

She looks at the tickets, 'Madam Butterfly'.

"The opera! You brought us tickets to the Opera?"

"That's okay, isn't it?"

Alex is actually speechless.

"That's okay, isn't it?" I ask again, perhaps I read her signals wrong. Five hundred and some years and I could live another score and not understand women I think.

Eventually Alex's mouth catches up with her thoughts, "I was singing?"

"Humming, in the shower. I was surprised, I must admit."

"I bet you were, maybe I heard it on an ad or something. Sorry, Hal, I don't know if Opera is my thing." She shuffles the tickets in her hands awkwardly.

"I…well…I thought, perhaps…It's alright, don't worry. I'll give them to Tom, it will give him a reason to ring Allison."

"No, sorry, look it's a lovely idea. It's just…Opera! I wouldnae know what to wear!"

"That's your reason?"

"No, no' just that, but…seriously, I was singing this?"

I nod, "The humming chorus. You were quite tuneful with it. I was impressed."

She hesitates before suddenly something dawns upon her features, clearly she must have recalled where she had heard the music. "Oh shit no," she says.

"I'm sorry."

"Nothing."

"Alex, you're worrying me."

"It's nothing, seriously. Okay, I'll go."

"Really?"

"Yes, really, but if it's crap I'm taking you to a One Direction concert as punishment, deal?"

It starts to rain. We don't move. It pours. We don't move. I can't move, I won't move, because Alex won't move. Everything in my bones tells me to wait, to stay.

Alex holds out her hand. It hangs there between us, glistening with rain-water in the lamplight. I take it. We shake and then, suddenly, she pulls and kisses me, deep, her hands in my hair, mine not quite knowing what to do at first until I relax, remembering this is safe, and allow the moment to take its course. It lasts for a while, under the cawing of the gulls, the flicker of the lamplight, the bells of the Barry arcade scoring our breaths, the lap of the waves matching our elevated heartbeats. She tastes of milk and chocolate.

It is Alex who breaks first.

"Perfect," she smiles. "Just, perfect."


	22. When shall we three meet again?

**Chapter 22: When shall we three meet again?**

"Well, Ladies, I'd say that was a job well done!" celebrates Izzy, beaming cheerfully. The cork on the last champagne bottle that she carries explodes itself from the neck with joy, spilling a fountain of creamy bubbles on the bar. Izzy tops up Linny and Colette's glasses as quick as she can as she sops the spillage up with a fraying Tenent's Extra bar towel.

Technically, the barman should have been the one serving them the drinks, but neither Linny nor Colette had wanted Izzy to be left out of the festivities. It had not taken them long to distract him from his work and ply him with enough alcohol to send him into a drunken stupor, and hey presto. For Izzy, he was now the ghost equivalent of a free bar.

The memory of Colette's past self holds up her glass. "Santé!", she toasts in response. She downs her glass in one as her future self takes a seat upon a stool at the other end of the bar and watches her past with a sad fascination.

The three happy ghosts are to be found in 'The Blood Barrel'. It had been Izzy who had suggested the old pub that she and Hal had once haunted. It was not Colette's idea of a nice place to celebrate such a moment; dirty, downtrodden, it gave off a dark and sticky air. The thinning carpet and nicotine stained walls were a far step from her own beloved club. But, their needs had required it; back then they had decided that it was imperative that Linny remain hidden from other vampires in the city, especially Richard, so Colette had conceded to Izzy's suggestion.

As she now listens to her past self, Linny, and Izzy, toast their success, she watches the door with intent.

She is looking for any sign of Izzy's arrival from the other side of Purgatory. It was this, a memory that both Colette and Izzy had shared, that she had been instructed to find. It was as good as any other, Izzy had said on the phone, and it was not as if they were spoilt for choice. They hadn't met face to face more than a handful of times.

Searching out this memory itself had taken her ages. Colette had skipped into a few reminiscences that had left her emotions reeling. Old clients, consorts, kills. None of them had left her particularly happy recollections to relive. To finally come accross this little moment of joy feels such a relief, but even this is a bitter-sweet reminiscence, full of joy, laced with sadness, and now soured by a better understanding of what would follow.

"To us!" Izzy's past self grins again. She pretends to clink her own imagined glass against Belinda's, before plonking a hand on the head of the catatonic barman next to them. She sucks in the effects of his intoxication and hiccups. The drunk barman groans.

It had been Izzy who had suggested that they help Hal, Linny who had persuaded Colette, and she who had taken most of the risk. It had been worth it, but the few weeks that had led up to that moment had been tough, for them all. All that planning: how to get Hal away; all the emotions; knowing she would be losing him, as a friend, a lover, a business partner; all the doubt: what would happen once he was gone.

It is only from her observant position that Colette now notes that Linny had hesitated to celebrate along side.

Even though this had been their night to forget about all of their effort, even though she had planned on imbibing copious amounts of alcohol, to drown out her worries, and even though Izzy had the same intent, now Colette can see there was something Belinda was hiding.

Izzy notices too, and is not going to put up with it. While Colette is drinking she nudges Belinda, rolls her eyes and mouths 'drink up'. Linny, appropriately encouraged, takes a drink, and follows it with a second.

"You know," Colette chirped in, "He had me worried for a minute, Hal, I thought he would never leave! But then he always has had a talent for prolonging things." Colette says with a wicked smirk. The three women cackle drunkenly. This is despite the fact that one of them isn't technically drinking any and the other two had the kind of metabolism that meant they would need to drink half the rum in Jamaica to get this squiffy without a blood chaser.

'The Blood Barrel' had seen its fair share of vampires drunk on blood, booze and bravado. That night the ladies in question had already consumed almost all the champagne, gin and just a dash of rum for good measure. The whisky decanters were dry, the martini was gone, and Linny had managed to finish an unpleasant looking lemon liqueur that had probably been bottled sixty years before and had never opened. Yet, rarely for patrons of the old pub, not a drop of the 'hard' stuff has passed their lips. To Colette, in hindsight, this made it more impressive that they were already so drunk. This night not only marked their successful 'rescue' of Hal from himself, but also the first night of Linny and Colette's attempt at personal sobriety. Detoxing would start tomorrow, but that night alcohol was the order of the day for celebration, and dutch-courage for the difficulties that would begin in the morning.

Colette wondered if that was the reason that Izzy had directed her to this particular shared memory. She was well aware that the ghost understood the habits of vampires, the lust that the blood incited, the sacrifice and effort it took to resist those urges, and the commitment it took to keep it up every, single day; it resulted in a scornful tolerance on Izzy's part. Colette presumed that this was as a result of Izzy's own experiences. As they had sat in the pub, that night, she admitted to have once 'tasted' the substance's effects through Hal. She spoke of the times she had 'watched' Hal try to clean himself up, and how it had always resonated for her all the more for experiencing, and struggling with, the addiction herself.

"I mean it was bloody amazing," Izzy says with reminiscence, "'scuse the pun, for a while, but um… I forgot myself, forgave Hal for unforgivable things, and it wasn't until I saw my face, who I was becoming. I realised I needed to stop." Izzy inhales another shot of tipsiness from the man beside her. "It was sodding hard though, seriously, you girls have nothing but respect from me for doing this."

Having made it clear that there will never be a repeat of that particular situation, she fondles the head of the man on the bar as best she can. The attempts are sporadic. She misses his head on the first attempt and nearly slides off the stool to the floor. Colette's past self finds this particularly amusing.

Belinda looks into her glass. She swirls the champagne about. A melancholy grimace creeps all over her face again. Colette is dismayed that she hadn't noticed at the time, but her past self was already on her fifth glass of bubbly, it is hardly a surprise.

Realising that her glass is empty past Colette hops up onto the bar and swings her long legs over, knocking a few empties over in the process. "I need a refill!" she explains as she clambers into the space behind the bar. While she is distracted, by attempts to retrieve a stubborn bottle of vodka, that she has found, from behind the bar, it is Izzy who notes how quiet Linny has become.

"Heyyyyyyyyyyy," she drawls, and leans towards Belinda. She rests her head on her hand with a frown. "Wha's up soppy-chops?"

Belinda hesitates and then leans closer to answer. Her eyes are full of uncertainty.

The observant Colette holds her breath, as if by making too much sound might disturb the passage of history. She bristles with curiosity. While her younger self never had cause to be concerned about what private moments Linny and the ghost shared, what asides, or whispers passed between them, with hindsight she is intensely concerned. She knows now that there was so much more to their friendship than Colette had known, so many more secrets. What if these secrets had to do with the reason Linny left, or Hal's present descent? What if Izzy _never_ tells her, and Belinda can hardly explain now that she is dust? She realises this may be her only opportunity to find out. She pulls herself from her position at the bar and leans closer, wondering what it was that Izzy didn't want her to hear at the time.

"He will be ok, won't he?" Belinda asks Izzy in a whisper.

"You're worried about that? Sheriously?" Izzy says quietly, slurring. "You actually _know _he will. You've known for yearsh," Izzy is equally conspiratorial in her response, and trying to be as delicate as possible.

Overhearing, Colette wonders what that could mean? Belinda knew what? How? She had always been so secretive about her past, and had never mentioned Hal, or knowing him at all, let alone that she had a greater part in their little conspiracy than being there to encourage Colette's deception. Colette is beginning to wonder if she ever knew Belinda at all.

Clearly aware of the other Colette, Izzy rests her hand on Belinda's shoulder to reassure her, "Plus, Leo will keep in touch, so at least we'll know what's going on. He promised."

"It's just what we are doing is so dangerous. You know what they say about stepping on butterflies…"

"Perhaps you should stop talking now Linny?" Izzy says through gritted teeth as the last of their number returns triumphantly, bearing the last of the vodka in a broken bottle.

Linny purses her lips and does as the ghost suggests, much to present day Colette's dismay.

"I agree ma chérie. Je peux penser a plusieurs utilite pour ta langue bien plus interessante que de parler. Maintenant, cessez de vous inquiéter et prendre un verre," her past self says, catching the last of the conversation as she returns.

Linny laughs, her tension disappears instantly. "Je vais m'assurer de le mettre à la bonne utilisation tard ce soir, Babes," she replies with a saucy wink.

"What did you say?" Izzy asks with exasperation.

"Oh, nothing," Linny says with a smirk. She glances heatedly at Colette and reaches for her hand under the table, which Colette's past self takes. "Shall we get this party started then?"

Colette remembers that night very well. Linny had indeed stuck to her word when they had returned home.

As Colette watches the scene play out in front of her she feels a stab of emotion that she didn't usually allow herself to let slip. She had been so many things to so many people, and all of them fake to some degree. It was odd to so clearly remember a time when she had just been herself. Not only that, but this was such a happy memory, of triumph, and love, and sisterhood. They all had been so truly happy in that moment. Three women, celebrating a magnificent victory, amongst so much defeat in their lives. It was joyous and heartbreaking to watch, because it had not lasted.

The loneliness had returned to Colette's life with Linny's departure. It had remained to this day.

Belinda, whatever had happened to her had not only brought her a proper death, it had caused her to take her life.

And Izzy? Neither heaven nor humanity had been there for her. She had been rewarded, somehow, with a return trip to Limbo.

Now that Colette knows that Linny had chosen to abandon her, rather than having died or left against her will, her sadness is rapidly being replaced by hurt. Colette feels tears building at the corners of her eyes. She dismisses her pain, throwing herself back into watching the celebrations, hoping to pick up some of their infectious joy. She is glad none of them had known what would come next, back then. Perhaps Linny had suspected? Was that possible? Was that what that sadness was underneath?

_C'est précisément pourquoi tu ne vous permettez pas d'aimer, Colette. Il se termine toujours dans la douleur, _she thinks morosely_. _This is precisely why you don't allow yourself to love, Colette. It always ends in sorrow.

"If you think about it, we are like Hal's guardian angels." The younger Colette giggles. Her older counterpart rolls her eyes with embarrassment.

"I'm no angel," Belinda sighs.

"We need to come up with a name for ourselves," Izzy grins.

"Really?" says Belinda.

"A name? Like what?" Colette slurs, playing along.

"I don't know... Oooh! How about, _Hal's Undercover Guardians_?" the ghost beams with pride.

Belinda and Colette only laugh in response. "_Thwarters of Hal's Untimely Death_?" Linny suggests with amusement.

"Oh! Oh! Got it! The_ Female Initiators of the Lasting Teetotalism of Hal Yorke_?" Izzy grins. "Or? no! How about, _Hal's Unsung Master Protectors_?" The other two burst out into giggles. Izzy pretends to be innocent, "What?"

"HUMP?!" Linny manages between chuckles.

"Oh. Yeah," Izzy joins them in their laughter.

"How about the _Secret Hal Assistance Guild_?" Linny cackles, her laugh breaks into a slight snort, which only forces them all to buckle all the more as she blushes with embarrassment.

"SHAG?" Colette sniggers.

"Si tu offres," Linny smirks at her.

"Juste tu attend jusqu'à ce que j'arrive chez moi," Colette says with a wink.

"Can you two stop doing that? Seriously, what are you saying?" Izzy grumbles with irritation.

"What about, the _Supernatural Order for the Protection of Harry Yorke_? That is not too dirty, right? SOPHY for short," Colette suggests, ignoring her. She throws back another shot of vodka.

Linny laughs in disbelief, "Yes! How did you come up with that, you're half puddle?"

"Je pense que tu trouveras que je suis compétent dans beaucoup de choses. Même quand je suis ivre!" Colette answers throatily, indicating, with a slight raise of her eyebrows, that she is capable of many things while drunk.

"I never did work out what you were saying in French all evening!"

Colette jumps. She is shaken from her thoughts on the memory as the Izzy whom she has been waiting for finally appears beside her at the bar. The ghost looks at the three women sat at their table close by, still laughing and celebrating. Colette turns to look at her. Izzy smiles warmly and pulls her old friend into embrace. They are both seemingly relieved not to be alone in this awful place any more.

"I don't think you would have wanted to know what we were saying," Colette says by way of a greeting once they part.

"Ah! Say no more," Izzy says with a grimace.

Colette's lips quirk into a small smile to see her friend almost blush. At the time of the memory Izzy hadn't been aware of the affair between herself and Linny. She had not been afforded the blessing of ignorance for long, having discovered them in rather a compromising position not long after that night. Funnily enough Izzy had not chosen _that _joint memory for their rendezvous.

Both she and Izzy can not help but watch themselves for a few minutes. It is a pleasant chance to enjoy the chance to reminisce. Colette suspects that a good deal will pass before the opportunity to enjoy such joy again.

Izzy's makes Belinda's present absence even more acute. During quite a violent outburst of laughter, Linny spills her drink. It catches the black satin of her ridiculously high heels. She whips the shoe off, turning the air blue with curses. More cross than she should be, Belinda paws at it in an attempt to halt the slight stain appearing in the material. Although she takes an equal amount of time to complain about the lack of sympathy from the two women sat either side of her, howling with laughter. _That _was the Linny Colette had come to love over time. Even though the memory is soured now, marred by what came later, she feels it again. It is as fresh as it had been that day.

The time will come for silence, it is not now.

She has to ask.

"Why did she leave?" she says to Izzy quietly, without taking her eyes from her former lover.

Izzy waits, thinking for long enough for Colette to be sure that she knows the reason but is being evasive. "I think that's something you need to ask her when we get her back." she replies, eventually, confidently. It is as if that is exactly what they will do, no matter how impossible it seems, or how dead she had claimed Belinda was.

It gives the vampire hope.

"So," Izzy claps, "let's go then. Allons-y!" She pulls at Colette's arm, tugging her reluctantly from the cheering, dancing, singing, drinking, happy furies.

"Wait, you _do_ speak French?" Colette chastises as they head towards the door.

Izzy opens the heavy wooden door to 'The Blood Barrel', with a laugh, "Nah, that's the one bit of French I do know. I watch Doctor Who," she spurts, as if this is all the explanation she needs to give.


	23. A Phantom at the Opera

**Chapter 23 – A Phantom at the Opera**

I feel nervous. Each of the hairs on my arm is standing to attention. I am waiting in by the Penderyn Awen bar at the Millennium Centre among the bustling pre-Opera crowds. There is a bottle of champagne on ice waiting in the box, a bunch of flowers too, but it feels like it is too much. I keep picturing Alex laughing at me like I'm an idiot when she sees me. I should have just taken her out for fish and chips and a pint of the brown stuff on the beach, as Tom had suggested.

Alex and Tom went out early in the morning after breakfast and I haven't seen either of them all day. That has made it a little worse, though I suspect I would have been this anxious anyway. So much is riding on this moment, this evening, not just my feelings.

I look at my watch, thinking maybe she won't come? I wonder if she and Tom have decided to go to Scotland without me, that the gamble of asking her out last night was a step too far, too fast. And that kiss? Was it a consolation prize? I play out scenarios in which she sees her family again, they embrace her with open arms, and disregard the stupid accident of confusing her for dead. In this horrible fantasy they also adopt Tom, give him the family he has always wanted, and I never see either of them again. Maybe it would be for the best, maybe I shouldn't hold out hope for any possibility of a relationship here. I know what they say about affection born out of shared trauma. I am being a fool.

I try not to let any of this anxiety show as I wait, though perhaps a little ekes out. The girl behind the bar leans forward to get my attention slamming her two over-ripe breasts on it like fruit.

"Can I get you something, love?" she asks in a charming welsh drawl.

I smile in a polite way, "No, no, thank you."

"Only you look like you need something?"

"Really, I'm just fine."

"Glass of wine maybe? Some nuts?"

I check my watch again. It is becoming a nervous habit, perhaps it was this that gave me away. Maybe something to settle the nerves would not be a bad idea? It's hardly like I'm drinking blood again. A small glass of red wine won't do too much damage. I haven't had alcohol since I became human, and I have been a little worried at the implications of having any now. Perhaps one glass. I reach for my wallet.

"There we go," the bar girl chirrups with bold abandon, "That's the stuff, love, dutch courage."

She reaches for cheep looking bottle, I cough, "The Chateauneuf du Pape, please."

"Oh, lovely," she says, as she uncorks the bottle. Well, I think, if I'm going to break the seal on a good half century of tee-totalism, I will be damned if I'm drinking something akin to vinegar. I take the glass before she had barely finished pouring and slip it to my lips. It tastes strange, everything does these days, new, and pleasant. The sensation is warming, fruity, and bitter given my taste buds are not used to the flavour. It is all gone in less than a few gulps.

"First date is it?" the bar woman, Emma her badge says, "Don't worry, love, you'll do just smashing. And if not..." Emma grabs a bar mat, scrawls on it with a pen and slides it along the bar. "You can always give me a call." She is just my type, or, specifically, the old me's type. Back in the day, back when my main pre-opera aperitif was warm, red, and freshly uncorked from a vein, a willing blonde, barmaid would have been just the thing pre-show. She reminds me of so many like her. Strange that in the moment when I was just questioning my confidence someone like she would make a move.

I pick up the mat. How depressingly predictable.

"This is your number," say I.

"It is," says she.

I find myself thinking, musing, on all the fun stuff Emma and I could get up to if Alex doesn't come. I'll have a spare ticket, after all. It doesn't have to be serious does it? And it's not like I'm in any danger of hurting her, not these days. Or am I? No. No, Hal, you're human now. But humans do bad things too.

See, wine. Bad idea. I may stick to soft drinks. I could easily take the card. I do not. "Thank you, Miss..."

"Emma."

"Thank you, Miss, but..."

"Oi!" Alex smacks her hand on the bar. "Piss off, sweetie," she glares. "I mean it, or d'ye want me to jump this bar and lamp you in the throat?"

Emma takes the hint, she smiles, blinks a little and then returns to her professional attitude. "Sorry, miss, I didn't mean any harm by it, can I get you anything?"

"Yeah, a pint..." she pauses, "make it two for the price one or I'll shop you to the manager for lewd conduct."

Blushing, the bar maid returns to her business.

"Hello," says Alex now that we are alone. She is stunning, wearing a silky looking trouser-suit and white shirt. Her figure is an elegant silhouette, her hips are tempting. I grin. I am about to compliment her wildly when I see Tom in the middle distance in a tux. I lean over to peer over Alex's shoulder in horror.

"Tom?" I ask.

"Oh, hello Hal, isn't this nice. Fancy seeing you here. Lovely day for it ain't it?" he says in that way he does when he is trying to be nonchalant.

My voice lowers to an aggravated whisper as I pull him aside, "Tom, what the hell are you doing here?!"

"Oh, got a date ain't I," he admits.

I don't understand, which he works out.

"On the internet like, she asked me to come to the opera, meet 'er here."

"You can't!" I say.

"I can. Alex took me out to get a suit, what do yer think?"

"It's..."

"Dead smart. I ain't never had a proper suit before, not one of my own anyway. I feel like James Bond. It's only rented like, don't panic, I didn't take nowt out the kitty for it. Just wanted to look nice, din't I? It's the opera, everyone's dead posh, so I thought..."

"I mean, I'm on a date with Alex, you can't be here."

"Don't worry. I ain't going to cramp your style, mate."

"I'm not worried about that it's just..."

"If you say 'barbaric' I may have to thump you, mate."

"No, I wouldn't. It just feels horribly coincident. There were no tickets left you see."

"Well...maybe she got 'em ages ago like?"

I think. He's right. I shouldn't be so paranoid, that is a perfectly sensible explanation. "Fine."

Tom dusts down his ruffled suit, "S'alright then, ain't it."

"Yes, yes I suppose it is. Who is this woman anyway?"

"Alice."

"Alice?"

"Yeah, she's a student at the University, dead clever, studying to be a vet. We got chatting about animals in the wild and such."

"A student? Tom, she sounds a little like - " But I can't finish there.

"Sorry, I'm confused. Is it _you two _that are on a date? Only, I thought you were here to woo me, Hal? Pardon me, Tom, if I tare your companion away before things get too heated." Tom laughs as Alex pulls me away and goes to search for his date. I note he is carrying a red handkerchief, no doubt in order to be spotted by this mystery woman who seems a little too much like Allison for my liking. He needs to move on or just man up and call her.

Back to the bar, she jokes, "Only I'm getting very lonely at the bar while you two flirt, and I'm inclined to jack it and go to the rugby."

"I'm sorry."

"Too right. Going to make it up to me then are you?" she asks flirtatiously.

"I hope to."

Alex rolls her eyes, "That was a hint to kiss me, you idiot."

"Oh," I blush, "Sorry. Here?"

Alex shrugs, "I'm game if you are."

I lean in for a kiss as the tannoy calmly announces there are minutes for us to take our seats. I don't let it phase me and push my lips upon hers.

"Have you been drinking?" she asks as I pull away, but there is no horror to her tone. She knows my tastes have changed.

"Perhaps," I smile. "Just the one."

"Aye, well I suppose I can let you off." She picks up both the beers which she has ordered, knocking back one in a display of alcoholic consumption which I find horribly impressive. It barely touches the sides. Then she takes a ladylike sip of the second, cocking her little finger in a joke manner.

"Impressive," I say.

Alex grabs my hand and leads the way, "No gag reflex, for the record," she says flippantly, "too many years playing drinking games with the local rugger-buggers."

That is the moment. It's the moment I realise that I am in love with her.

* * *

The box for which we have tickets is stage left, second from the proscenium. It is a good view. The space is impressive. I would have never allowed myself to visit previously, too many people, and especially with my previous history at such occasions. But I had always wanted to see it myself, before now. How glad am I that it is with Alex at my side, not only as a pleasing distraction, but also as a rock. I do not have the taste for blood anymore, the desire to kill, nor the hunger; but the memory of my past is still rich, and, I am ashamed to admit, sometimes I have found enjoyment in small recollections. It has not happened regularly, I try to live in the present, but moments - such as the one with the bar maid, just now - serve to remind me I am not 'all' good. Not any more.

I am afraid of them, of what they make me now. The memories, that is. When I am with Alex, there are no recollections, she is all there is.

"Blimey," Alex says as she sits. I pour a glass of champagne. "Big isn't it." She leans closer, her lips beside my ear, "I have a horrible urge to shout rude words."

"Seats one thousand, eight hundred and ninety seven people."

"Yeah, thanks for that, Rainman. You know who I'd love to see here, Simply Red."

"Simply who?"

"Red, they were this band my Dad used to totally love. We use to put on concerts for my brothers. He would wear a mop head as a red wig. He'd love this place."

"Ah," I say, though lingering on the subject of her family when we are going to see them in the morning is hardly my preferred subject of conversation, "lovely." I shift awkwardly in my seat. This is not going well.

"Did you get a Programme?" she asks.

I hadn't. "Sorry, do you want me to..." I gesture to get up and fetch whatever it is she wants.

"Nah, I'll bluff it. Don't really need to know what the cast have been in before or stuff like that, and you can tell me the plot I suppose."

I point to the screen hanging above the stage, "I checked, they provide surtitles."

"Is that like they do on the telly for deaf people?"

"It's similar. They show the translation, for the opera. This is Puccini, in Italian, you can read the translation in that box above the screen."

"Still, I sort of was hoping you'd tell me the story."

"You were?"

"Yeah, kind of thought it would be a bit sexy."

The hubbub of the crowd begins to dull as the orchestra enters. We clap politely. The conductor enters, more applause. This is not a traditional staging, it is an operatic performance rather than theatrical. There are no sets or costumes, only the music. The orchestra fill the stage and the conductor takes his place at the pinnacle. I lean towards Alex, as she had hoped. "Frédéric Chaslin," I tell her, "I read about him in the paper. He was the chief conductor at Santa Fe." He is a little man, distinctly french.

She slips her hand on my knee, "He looks like a Danny Devito."

I laugh, and take her hand in mine. "He's quite brilliant apparently."

The little man turns, declines his baton and the orchestra take their seats. He turns to the audience. "Madames et Messieurs, welcome to this glorious hall. Foneddigion a Boneddigesau, chroeso i'r neuadd godidog!" he attempts, in Welsh. The audience applaud rapturously. "Tonight we 'ave a wonderful collection of performances from the magnificent orchestra, the cast of the Welsh National Opera, and some special guests. It is a night I am sure that you will remember fondly for many years to come." The little man takes a little bow and turns, casting a spell upon the performers and their instruments. They begin.

Exuberant, explosive strings mark the prelude. The horn section builds. The flutes sprinkle across like rain. Symbols clap, and the running strings sing. Alex grasps my hand.

The tenor walks onto the stage. "Captain Pinkerton," I explain in a whisper, close to her hear. "His character is an American soldier, stationed in Japan, he plans to marry a young Japanese girl while he waits for his American wife. The girl he will marry is Cio-Cio San, nicknamed Butterfly."

"What a bastard!" Alex says, a little loud. No one notes it.

Another man joins the cast, "Goro, the marriage broker," I explain.

Alex is reading the words, she drinks up her champagne. When the first performance is complete, they traverse the first few libretta, Mr Chaslin indicates that we should applaud. The cast take a bow, "The wonderful Gwyn Hughes Jones, Phillip Lloyd Holtam." We clap dutifully.

Alex seems to be enjoying herself. I pour her another glass of champagne, "what do you think?" I ask, tentatively.

"It's alright, pretty impressive really."

"But?"

"I dunno, I feel like a bit of a fraud up here in this box. Can't we go sit with Tom?" she whispers.

"I...if you want." She punches me in the shoulder.

"I'm kidding, you numpty, god you're way to easy to wind up." She kisses me again. It is a pleasant distraction as the _Ancora un passo _begins. The distant trill of Madame Butterfly enters over the crowd. The character is meant to be offstage at this point, in the distance, her voice beguiles the hard-hearted Pinkerton as she approaches with her school chums. A crowd of bell like voices swim through the acoustics from off stage as Alex and I wrap ourselves in each other, knocking over the champagne.

Then, suddenly, Alex pulls away. She looks at me in horror. "I..." she says, and turns to the stage. She leans so dramatically over the banister to look athat I am worried, for a second, that she plans to throw herself into the audience. "It can't be!"

"What?" I ask, what did I do wrong? Then I see it, or, more specifically, _her_. The soprano.

On the stage, drifting in towards the microphone as the chorus underpin her lilting high notes is a soprano in her late forties She has a spectacularly clean voice. The audience are thrilled. Whispers fall among the crowd. I stand. Alex looks up at me. "Where are you going?" she asks.

"I...I just need to check." I run outside the box. I search for an usher. There are none. I can hear the distant notes as my feet pound on the flood. It can't be? Alex said it. It can't be, can it? I'm going to prove that it isn't. I am back at the bar. There is the barmaid, Emma, cleaning glasses. She smiles, flirtatiously.

"Back so soon, love?"

"A programme! I need a programme." I wave my hands dramatically.

She smiles and hands me one from beneath the bar. I slam a tenner in her general direction and flip through the pages in a hurry. Reaching the cast list I take a second step and have to catch the bar for the purposes of steadying myself. This is too much of a coincidence! It has to mean something. But what? Am I going mad? Am I trying to find a reason for this world to be less than as real as I dream it is. Then again, I suddenly realise, I haven't had a dream since I have been human, nor any nightmare. Is it possible? Is that itself just a matter of my body, my old brain, adjusting, or is there something more to it. Is _this_ that something? If so...why her?

I return, slowly, dry mouthed to the box. I sit in my chair. I hand the programme to Alex. She stares at it as I have done. I wonder if the same thoughts go through her mind as have done mine.

I don't want to ask the question I am about to ask, but I do.

"How did you know?" I whisper.

The duet beings, Cio-cio shows Pinkerton her treasures including the sword her father was given to kill himself with. Alex watches the soprano with such sadness on her face I feel the need to hold her. "Alex? Alex?" She sheds a small tear, spoiling her perfect make up.

I reach out for her, but she pulls away. "I want to go," she says as she stands.

"Alex, how did you know?"

"Hal. I can't, please I can't watch."

"Please. I have to know. You knew who she was. Just by hearing her."

"I need to go," Alex says as a whisper, "It's okay, we'll get a kebab or something. Hal, please."

She turns to leave.

I stand. "Alex!" I whisper as loudly as I can. She does not stop. "Alex!" I say a little louder. She is at the door, her hand on the handle. "**ALEX**!" I shout. I do not care who hears me. Politeness be damned. Propriety be damned.

Everything stops. The singing. The orchestra. The muted whispers of the crowd. Both Alex and I stare back at the one thousand, eight hundred and ninety five pairs of eyes in the audience, looking back at us. Not to mention the fifty musicians on the stage, Mr Frédéric Chaslin, Mr Gwyn Hughes Jones, Mr Phillip Lloyd Holtam, and of course, Lady Veronica Highcastle, the soprano. Belinda Weaver's mother.

The programme fell on to the floor as Alex stood. It has a picture of the woman there. It reads, with a photograph,_ "The WNO are proud to welcome the famous soprano, Veronica Highcastle, who returns to the stage for this one off performance in aid of the charity 'mind'. After years out of the spotlight we are sure she will revive some of those moments from her memorable renditions of Cio-cio at Glynbourne, the most lauded performances of Madame Butterfly in the last fifty years. She will perform a number of the aria in tonight's show. Speaking about her return to the stage, she says, 'Butterfly has always held a special and precious place in my heart, I am overjoyed to have been asked to return to the stage and for such an exceptional cause. As you might know I am a proud member of the board at 'mind' and much of the fund from this special show will be donated to this incredibly important cause'."_

I had recognised her from the photograph Belinda had left behind when I had thought she was dead. I had stared at it long enough on the mantel to know her now, moreover her resemblance to her daughter was extraordinary. Seeing her on that stage now, mature, slender, piercing blue eyes which shone even at this distance, looking up at me where we had disturbed the show, the recollections of her offspring were raw. Nevertheless, I would not have recognised her voice, not as Alex clearly had.

The entire hall is silent. We, now, are the show.

"Alex?" I whisper, "Please."

In the silence she looks at me with such unhappiness, "Belinda came back." She says, "Before we killed the devil. She came back."

And with that she leaves.


	24. Customs and Exorcise

**Chapter 24 - Customs and Exorcise**

After closing the door to the pub behind them both, Izzy sets off into the bleak corridor. Colette follows behind. Her humongous heels clop against the concrete slowly. unless being chased, she does not run. Izzy is not of the same mind; despite being a great deal older, at least in terms of years, than Colette acts as if time is of the essence in this timeless place. She breaks into a run the minute they are out of the 'Blood Barrel'. When she notes that her associate has failed to follow, with the same sense of urgency, she turns in her bare feet to see what could possibly be slowing Colette down.

Izzy catches sight of the french woman's footwear. "Are you sure those shoes are appropriate? Actually, did you even think about that outfit before you put it on? I mean you could have been facing anything over here," the ghost huffs with a chastising tut.

Colette answers dryly as she continues at her own pace. "I didn't exactly have much of a chance to pick my clothes before the door came. I was a little tight for time." This was not entirely true, of course, but Izzy did not need to know. Nevertheless if Colette had learned one thing in her many decades it was to always make time to dress for the occasion. It was a lesson that never failed to come in handy. She and Linny had this motto in common, she recalled.

"Well at least you got to _choose _something. Imagine being stuck like me," Izzy sighs.

Colette can only wonder. The ghost's tattered chemise had never left much to the imagination of those able to see her.

"Well, it's your funeral, we have a long walk ahead of us," Izzy finishes.

"I'm sure I can manage. You wouldn't believe the things I've had to do in heels before. Believe me, walking in them is not a problem."

"This is another one of those things I don't want to know about, isn't it?"

"Probably," Colette says. "So, this is _it_; Purgatory? I have to say, the decor is appalling, and it is so dark. A little mundane." She doesn't want to seem disappointed but knew that she must have seemed so by her tone. She is simply shocked, and had not yet had the opportunity to express it. Her imaginings had concocted nightmares of a hellish place, where those strange men who plagued her dreams as she converted, laid all manner of unpleasantries at her door. Unimaginable things. To find it so drab was a little of an anticlimax. "Not that I am complaining," she adds, "I simply thought it would be scarier than this."

"It is." Izzy says, her cheery disposition falling, "Scary, that is. But that pretty much depends where you are, what memories you fall into, what dark little crevices you get lost in. Where we are now is only really the entrance hall. It's where you end up when you first arrive. But it goes on forever, this place. You could walk for a hundred years and only see a tiniest part of it. There are some darker places that are best left avoided if you can help it. You learn to spot the signs for them, but I've ended up there once or twice without noticing." She shudders and pales, swallowing before she continues, "Those are the really scary parts. I shudder to think what it would be like to get properly lost down there, luckily I had help getting out," Izzy explains with something like cheer. Colette is about to ask, 'from whom', but Izzy stops her with a sudden smile, "Don't worry, we won't be going that way," she chirrups, attempting to be encouraging.

In all honesty, Colette is less than convinced. "So, where _exactly_ are we going? I know I said I would be okay in these shoes, but a hundred years does sound a little excessive."

"Ohhh, we won't be walking for that long. I totally know where I'm going. I think."

They reach a fork in the corridor.

Izzy pauses for a moment.

She looks left. She looks right.

She looks left. She looks right.

Whatever Izzy may assert, the ghost's behaviour is doing nothing to calm Colette's nerves. "Is everything..." Colette begins to question, before Izzy picks the left corridor with a confident grin.

"This way!"

Colette hopes to hell that this route does not lead to the places Izzy had spoken of. She does not want to go down there and wonders whether Izzy is their best chance for a guide, regardless of long she has been there.

Izzy, on the other hand is unperturbed by her slight pause, and has not stopped explaining the rest of her plan."Yes, so anyway, we are going to where we need to go to get out of here. Customs."

Colette catches the ghost's weary grimace at the word. She stops where she stands. "Customs?"

"I'll explain when we get there. It's dead confusing, loads of forms and queues and more forms and stuff, but it will be fine. Did I mention the forms?"

"Sounds a lot like Enfer to me. Speaking of which, if Purgatory is between Heaven and Hell, does that mean you can get to both through it?" Colette probably doesn't want to know the answer, but curiosity is an addictive thing. "When you say you think you know the way, there is no chance you will get us trapped in Hell, is there?" The fear she felt before she decided to come starts to return.

"We're not going to get stuck in hell!" Izzy insists as if Colette is being completely ridiculous. "You remember the dark places I told you about? I think they're Hell, or at least different bits of it. The deeper you go the worse it gets I hear. If someone dies and pass over, and they were bad in life, and I mean like really, really bad, then they get dragged down that way kicking and screaming. I actually saw it happen once..."

Izzy looks distant for a moment.

"The really, really bad? Well that bodes well for me and my kind then." Colette mutters, neither amused nor reassured.

Izzy shakes herself from head to toe, as if a cold wind had passed straight through her. She rids herself of the memory and continues, "As for heaven, well, I don't know. I assume it must be here somewhere. This can't be it. But I haven't found it yet. I don't think I want to."

"Why would you not want to find Heaven? You cannot _like _it here surely?"

Izzy stops. She shuffles from foot to foot and scratches at the back of her thigh with her toes, it is as if she has never thought about this before. Then again, thinks Colette, this may be the first conversation she has had in a while, perhaps no one has been around to ask.

Izzy shrugs. "I don't know. I can keep an eye on Hal while I'm here. I don't think I could do that if I was anywhere else. Besides, it's hard enough getting out of this place, what if I don't like it there, what if I wanted to come back. I have the feeling that's a one way deal. No, too risky."

Colette is shocked. "What do you mean, 'keep an eye on him'?"

"Just, you know, make sure he's alright and stuff. I know, I know, I worry too much, but I can't help it."

"So, you've been watching him from here? All this time?" Colette presses, "I can't decide if that's extremely creepy or completely brilliant." She smirks at Izzy, amused at her awkwardness at being caught out stalking Hal.

"It's not doing any harm," Izzy says, defending herself poorly. "He thinks I'm in a good place. He thinks I'm fine. He thinks I'm sipping tea with Leo and Pearl and Annie. And he's happy to think that, and I'm happy that he's happy, and that's all that matters. There's no shame in living a dream if it's better than reality," Izzy insists as justification.

Colette sighs, as someone who has spent her life forcing herself to portray a facade to her clients, to be everything they want rather than her real self, she can not agree. Her present life might be lonely, but at least she has found a way to be herself much of that time.

She decides to try and be understanding, "So, when you last 'saw' him, how was he? What has he been doing?"

Izzy smiles knowingly, but doesn't answer.

"Oh, so it's alright for you to ghost stalk him, but I can't know how he's been all this time? Typique!"

"No, it's not that. It's just... funny, how we all care about him so much, even though he's a complete... codpiece at times. I mean, what changed your mind?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well you're here, even though you said no, at first, and even though you were scared. You still came...eventually," Izzy says, almost bitterly.

After a moment considering the same to herself, Colette tries to explain, "He is the reason I changed my life, I suppose. I thought I was happy, but he proved that there was another option, another possibility: a better way of life even for the worst of us. In the end, he helped me to find myself. The real me. I owe him everything. And you were right, I joined SOPHY to protect him, that possibility, so protect him I shall."

"See," Izzy smiles, "Each and every one of us, hopelessly devoted."

"Yes, we are. How pathetic." Colette smirks at the ghost. "Isn't that a line from Grease?"

Izzy laughs. "Ok, I'll admit, I'm a little bit addicted to all those old American musicals... What? It gets boring over here!"

"You mean to say it is actually possible to become tired of looking at Hal?" Colette winks, she forgets to ask 'how' Izzy has been indulging in such things, just as she had forgotten to question 'whom' had helped her find her way out of those dark places. Half of her is sure that Izzy is joking about both.

Clip clop.

The sound of Colette's ridiculous heels upon the concrete floor is the only sound that can be heard throughout the dark and cold corridors of purgatory.

Clip clop..

Clip clop..

They had been walking in relative silence for a while now. Colette had run out of questions, and though she knew Izzy must have some answers, now was not the time for a full interrogation.

Clip clop…

Clip clop…

Clip clop…

If anything Colette did not want to distract her old friend from the pressing task of _not _accidentally leading them into the darkest pits of hell.

Every now and again the silence is interrupted thus: Colette asks politely how far they had left to walk. Izzy responds, "Still a little way yet." Colette then asks, politely, whether Izzy actually knows where they were going, and Izzy responds that of _course_ she does. Colette then mutters something French under her breath. This happens at least six or seven times. It is only the last time Izzy lets slip that she is doubting her own ability to navigate the place, topping off the conversation by muttering that even though she has not "been down this way, since that last time, with Linny, I'm sure it's around here somewhere, you know, in this general direction."

Finally, when they turn a corner see a surprisingly vast door, Izzy is more than a little relieved herself. This door is nothing like the others. It is neither old, nor wooden. She sighs, visibly overjoyed, before regaining her composure, as if this was planned all along. "See!" she says.

The women stand before a huge pair of big glass automatic doors, shiny and new, like the kind you get in a supermarket. Strangely, the doors seem bigger than should be necessary, as if they are required to be large enough for the occasional giant to pass through. .

"Colette, welcome to 'Customs'," Izzy announces.

The doors loom above them, completely out of place next to the cracked plaster and peeling paint of Purgatory's walls, a lot more intimidating than those at your average Sainsbury's. They have words written on them in tiny print, in millions of strange languages and letters. In the bottom right hand corner Colette can just about make out 'Customs', and beside it 'Douane' in her native tongue.

Izzy allows a brief moment of awe from her friend, before she proceeds to walk right up to the automatic doors. They open, almost sighing with glee as she approaches.

* * *

Everything is different once they are on the other side. Although the corridor that they step into is still seemingly endless, and punctuated with an infinite amount of doors on either side, they are no longer in the semi darkness, decrepit industrial-looking space, through which they seemed to have walked for an age.

Fluorescent lighting fills this hall, making the immaculate cream walls and plush peach carpet glow coldly. Colette looks up. Apart from the sterile strip-lighting, the corridor is intermittently punctuated by large speakers. They are larger than would be expected in the modern world. There is something horribly eighties about them. Colette hated the eighties. The speakers send out delicate, repetitive musac out over the stale air. It is the kind of jazzy keyboard background drone which would drive a person mad in a very short lift journey. It's hardly Edith Piaf. Between the long line of carbon-copy doors there hang a series of hideous pictures, the kind always found in jumble sales, second-hand shops, clearance sales: dusty, faceless girls dancing through faded fields; sad looking trees on rainy moors; farmers driving grim looking hay wains; ugly women, in ugly clothes, painted using ugly colours; barren deserts with sad looking camels; and many more strange things Colette can not even begin to describe.

This corridor is no less unnatural than the rest of purgatory.

A grunt-like snore makes both ghost and vampire spin around. The doors have gone. The same corridor stretches behind them with the same insipid carpet, the same pristine walls; and instead of the doors through which they passed there is a battered looking desk covered in coffee rings. Joining the coffee rings atop of the desk is a tiny television with a bent aerial that looks to be playing the football. A stone cold cup of coffee and an old edition of _Nuts_ magazine sit precariously on top. There is also a pair of trainers, which happen to be attached to the feet of the culprit who is snoring.

Colette is less surprised to find they are now stuck in this place, than she is to find another being waiting for them. Was this who helped Izzy?

"Alright Alan?" says Izzy, Unconcerned about the absence of the doors through which they have come, she perches herself on the edge of the desk.

"I'm awake!" jumps Alan, jerking himself upright suddenly. He accidentally knocks over his cold coffee with his elbow. It spills into the grill of the old telly, shorting the cathode. "Awww, shit," he says, desperately trying to mop it up with his mag.

"Don't worry. I won't tell anyone you were sleeping on the job."

"Izzy!" Alan says when he looks up at who has sat upon his desk for the first time. "Hello, love. I ain't seen you down this way in a while. Got lost again?"

Colette coughs and Izzy gives her the stick eye before continuing, "Yes, well, I've had things to think about. Been spending a lot of time in the past, you know how it -" she pauses as Alan no longer appears to be paying her any attention. He is looking at Colette with a wide-eyed, open mouthed, and gormless expression on his face. "Oh, yeah, Alan, this is Colette," Izzy adds.

"Nice. Very nice," he says. Colette notices that his gaze is falling a little lower than her face.

"Alan?" Izzy coughs, causing him to blink and shake his head.

"...to meet you, very nice to meet you," he finishes. He hurries to plaster a smile on his face, smooths down his greying hair and makes a rather pointless attempt to hold in his beer belly. He offers Colette his hand, although his eyes still have not yet moved from her chest.

"Charmed," Colette says, very politely. She shakes his hand.

"So, Alan, is Steve around?" Izzy loudly interrupts his gawking.

"What?"

"Steve? Working? Now? Or is he doing the rounds? I, like, need to talk to him. It's important."

"Oh, Steve, yeah, he's around here somewhere, but I don't know if now's the right moment for a social call, love. He's overworked. It's been mad here. There's some _crazy _stuff is going on 'out there'." He demonstrates his meaning with air-quotes. Colette assumes he is indicating the real world, as opposed to this one or the one from which they have just come.

"Well, I'm sure a visit from me will brighten his day. He loves me. Come on, Colette, this way. Bye, Al." Izzy begins to make her way down the corridor. Colette releases her hand from Alan's grip, though it takes a moment for her to coach his fingers loose, and follows. She does not need to look back to know that he is quite clearly letching from behind, but she can tell from the horrified expression on Izzy's face as she turns and glances back at Alan.

"I don't know," says Izzy with a shrug as Colette meets her side, "I wander around this place half-naked for nearly half a millenia and not a look-in, and then you...pft, Men. I just don't get it." She sighs, facing forwards again, "Right, we need to keep an eye out for a door that says SRA office on it. Odds are he'll be in there."

"SRA?"

"It stands for 'Special Requests Application'," Izzy explains. "I went through my own door originally, so in order for me to leave a form needs to be submitted and approved, then countersigned (which is where you come in) by a supporting party, submitted in triplicate, and then, of course, a carbon-copy has to be sent to some special filing cabinet somewhere in the back of beyond. Literally."

Colette nods, as if this seems a sensible amount of admin required for anyone to pass back into the land of the living. "So, what does this 'Steve' have to do?"

"Oh, he works on the SRA desk when he's not checking the corridors for strays. I see him on his rounds sometimes. I think he gave up trying to persuade me to pass over after about the fiftieth time of asking. Now, Me and him, were like that. " Izzy holds up her crossed fingers to show Colette. "I'm talking Jaffa Cakes, Party Rings, Doctor Who marathons, Twiglets. It's good to get in with the right people over here, you know, saves having to wait in queues forever and a day."

They continue down the corridor. An alien-sounding, strangled cry suddenly echoes from behind a door marked 'DO NOT OPEN'.

"What in the name of God was that?" she asks Izzy, startled.

Izzy carries on down the hallway calmly. She shrugs, "That would be a human...or could be a werewolf, maybe a succubus, incubus, possibly a cat. Something alive anyway that found its way through a door. It's not supposed to happen, sends them completely bonkers, poor things. And every one here goes crazy because there isn't a form for it, apparently. Steve says it's been happening more and more recently though. I suggested they should make one; a form. You'd think there was one, they've got one for everything else."

"I still don't understand where exactly _here _is," Colette reminds Izzy.

"It's 'Customs'. It regulates what goes in and out of Purgatory, makes sure everything is checked into the right place at the right time."

Colette does not respond with the enlightenment Izzy had clearly hoped for, so she rolls her eyes and continues to explain, "Apparently, if you go through your door and you've got no UFB, unfinished business, then you just end up in the corridors straight away, but if something goes wrong, say you go through the wrong door or your transition gets ballsed up in some other way, then it's waiting rooms and forms and -"

"SRA!" Colette interrupts, pointing at a door.

"Brilliant. Nice one." Without hesitation Izzy pushes open the door.

* * *

The room inside is vast, the size of an airport lounge, and it is completely packed. Rows of chairs all occupied by ghosts of every age and nationality. They sit on little numbered chairs, with little numbered tickets clipped on little numbered clipboards. Colette assumes that they are waiting to see if their request will be approved. The musac, thankfully, does not play in this place. Or, if it does, Colette cannot hear it over the cacophony of voices.

Nearby, at the reception desk, stands a tall, black man wearing a crocodile skin waistcoat over a bare chest. He carries a rolled up whip as he leans over the counter talking at the young man sitting behind it. Based on Izzy's wild and excited gestures Colette assumes this is the aforementioned 'Steve'. He wears an old uniform, that is dusty and nondescript, it could be from any century, anyplace. He has pinned a bit of paper to his pocket with his name written on it in biro and is waving said biro in the face of the man with the whip.

"Look, I don't care what you did when you were alive!" Steve says, "We have a _strict _no animals policy, particularly on North African Barbary Lions, which I'm sure you are aware, are incredibly rare. Killing one so you can have a pet over here would break a hundred rules and require a tonne of paperwork, so I'm afraid in this case your request has been rejected." He slams a stamp on the form, and hands it back, "Have a nice day." He turns to his computer while the lion tamer walks away dejectedly.

Izzy skips up to the desk confidently, but before she can even open her mouth to speak Steve says: "No!"

"What!? You don't even know what I'm going to ask yet," Izzy pouts as soon as she gets there.

"You want me to give you an SRA form and skip you to the front of the queue." He still does not look up from his monitor. Colette wonders if this is intentional, so that he might not allow himself to be susceptible to Izzy's charms.

"Actually I was kind of hoping you could just fill it out for me and approve it straight away," her friend continues.

"Ohhhh, well that's OK then," Steve snaps sarcastically. He takes a generous sip of tea from a TARDIS mug beside the keyboard.

"Really?" Izzy trills, hopefully.

"No."

"Why not? You did it for me before."

"Exactly," he says, finally looking up at her. "I shouldn't have done it then, and I'm not going to do it now. It's breaking the rules Izzy! Do you realise how much trouble I could have got into?"

"But you didn't, did you, so you did the right thing. Anyway, this is for a _realllly _important reason. It will save thousands of lives! Save you a load of work."

"That's what you said last time."

"And it did."

"It also caused a shit-load of deaths, if I remember correctly," he raises his eyebrows.

"Pleeeeease Steve, for me? I wouldn't ask if -"

"No. If you want to get back to the real world then you're going to have to take a number and wait in the queue, like everyone else." He turns back to the computer.

There is a horrible finality to it that sends Izzy back to Colette with an angry sigh.

"He said 'no'."

"I heard," Colette smiles.

"Apparently we have to wait like everyone else! How ridiculous is that."

"Yes, I know."

Izzy grabs a little ticket and a little clipboard and a biro and sits down in the nearest free chair. "This is ridiculous!" she says loudly, as she begins scribbling on the form, so that Steve can hear her. The man tries to pretend he has not noticed. "Ridiculous!" Izzy repeats and taps her pen on the form, reading it out. " 'Am I now, or have I ever been, a member of the Bay City Rollers fan club'? RIDICULOUS!"

It serves only to amuse Colette. That her friend has been alive, so to speak, for hundreds of years, and that despite all she had seen and done she still possessed her childlike charm, was sweet.

After a moment allowing herself to enjoy the ghost's petulant anger, which recompensed somewhat for the anxiety caused by Izzy's poor ability to navigate on their walk to 'customs', she saunters up to Steve. She wiggles her hips a little more than is necessary. She leans over and whispers in his ear.

Barely two minutes later Colette totters back over to where Izzy is now staring at her, open mouthed. She hands Izzy the SRA form, filled in, signed, copied in triplicate and ready to go. "I left the copy with Steven for filing. He says we can go straight through, and to bring him back a bag of jelly-babies."

"How the hell did you do that?" Izzy asks.

"Years of practice, darling," Colette says with a smile. "It is all about showing them just a little, and always leaving them wanting more." See, she thinks, always take time to dress for the occasion. It never fails to pay off. Her eyes flicker down to Izzy's attire.

Izzy's gaze follows. "Are _you_ calling _me_ easy?"

"Non. Nothing of the sort." Colette lies, "It's this way isn't it, that's what Steven said." She begins to move towards the door.

Izzy is still standing rooted to the spot, stunned.

"Well come along then!" Colette laughs, "Allons-y."

* * *

After walking through yet more dreary, monotonous corridors for what seems like hours, finally a light at the end of the proverbial tunnel comes into view. Colette has to squint at first, just to make sure she is not imagining it, but there, a few hundred yards or so ahead of them through the gloom, there really is a door. Relief at the thought of finally escaping purgatory's claustrophobic grip floods through her as they draw closer to it.

Izzy is clearly as excited at the prospect of leaving purgatory again after so many years entombed within it. She is practically skipping towards it. Colette can't blame her.

"Where will this take us?" she asks Izzy.

"Home!" Izzy answers, happily. The ghost reaches the door. It glows with the sunlight beyond. Unlike the light in the rest of this place the light which stretches towards them now is warm, real. Colette pushes the door open with gusto.

The elation is short lived.

Stepping through, they are confronted with utter and unexpected devastation. "Mon Dieu..." Colette breathes, taking in the scene before them.

They have emerged on the side of a road, bordered on one side by a long row of tall, three storey houses. On the other side is a small pebble beach and the wide expanse of a grey and tempestuous sea.

In front of them, a car lays on its side. It is half buried in the side of a stationary lorry. A solitary arm hangs from the window, limp, distinctly dead. It is the only sign of the lifeless driver. As far as Colette can see motionless bodies lie on the pavement, dozens of them. They adorn the foot of the buildings about them, sporadically it seems the dead missed the concrete, landing in stead, haphazardly on bollards, bus-shelters, bins. Further along the road there are yet more crashed cars, some smouldering, some upturned, some have been simply abandoned. Corpses strewn across the tarmac close-by.

The situation is just as bad on the beach. The rough sea turns bloated bodies onto the pebbles. Colette can just make out something strange in the distance. This something is strange simply by the fact that it represents the only living creature they have yet come across. It is a man. He is in the distant surf, calmly filling the pockets of his coat with rocks from the shore bed, before he calmly proceeds into the swell.

"Qu'est-ce au nom de Dieu qui s'est passé?" Colette mutters to herself in astonishment.

"English, Colette..." Izzy chastises weakly, distracted by the chaos before her.

Save from the bodies and the man further down the beach, now barely visible through the surf, the street is deserted. "What has happened? How is this possible?" Colette asks, but not to any god this time. If there is a God, he has forsaken this place.

"I... I can't… I don't…" Izzy stutters, ghostly tears appearing at her eyes. "This is too soon."

* * *

**A/N: Thanks to ShoePigeon & KatyNewt for their support on this chapter. Much fun, *wields newt at Cat*, *drives 'Lex' into ditch*.**


	25. In the eyes of others only a reflection

**Chapter 25 - In the eyes of others only a reflection of themselves**

I have made it to the atrium before I succeed in stopping Alex in her tracks. The rain outside is pouring in a torrent now, thrumming on the cold stone of the square outside.

"Alex, please, wait," I say, reaching her.

"I'm sorry," she says, turning. I have the urge to hold her, but do not, her body language is taught. Everything in her is tense. Normally, on occasions such as these, I have been used to a violent outburst. This time, something is different. Neither of us say a word. Eventually her shoulders relax, she sighs. "I've ruined everything, I'm sorry."

"You don't need to be."

"Yeah, I do, you went to all this effort and then..." she gestures wildly in the direction of the auditorium. "Belinda fucking Weaver _again_. And it's my fault. I'm sorry."

"You're not making any sense, Alex. How can anything be your fault, especially the line up of the Welsh National Op -"

She rolls her eyes, stopping me in my tracks. "Look, I don't know, but it keeps happening. It's got to be something to do with me, it always bloody is. I don't know, I'm starting to think...oh, I don't know." She saddens.

I start to worry, "Alex, there's nothing here. It's not a sign, or something supernatural, or anything, it's just a coincidence" Please. Let it be a coincidence. "It has got nothing to do with _us,_" I insist, attempting my most convincing of tones while my anxieties rage underneath: Is she looking for a reason for us to be apart, is that it? Subconsciously she has decided to stay with her family, hasn't she? She's looking for an excuse, a reason to break this off without hurting me. Blaming ghosts? Blaming circumstance. It's cowardly. I feel myself getting angry. But no, this isn't like her? "Please, tell me what's happened."

Alex shrugs, "Before the whole 'you-know' with Wheely-pants-Hatch shit, I sort of...well, kinda, oh fuck it, I was having these vision things."

"Vision things?"

"I was seeing shit, alright. Like dreams, visions, whatever."

"I don't think that is entirely normal, Alex, are you sure it wasn't one of Hatch's games?"

She pauses, her lips sliding into a curious pout. Her eyes fold flat as she wonders if I am right. "Nah, it couldn't be. She was trying to warn me about him."

"Who was?" I have a horrible feeling I know the answer.

Alex grits her teeth, knowing what my reaction will be, "Belinda."

I shake my head.

"It was, I swear, she said she got like stuck to me because I possessed her. After a while I couldn't shake her. When I turned human she was gone, but now _this_! It has to mean _something._"

"You were imagining it," I insist. "It would simply not be possible for a vampire to..."

"Aye well that's the thing, I get the feeling she wasn't anymore."

"Wasn't what?"

"A vampire, at least not...completely?" Her voice raises slightly at the end, as if she is unsure what she is implying, and whether I will think her insane, or perhaps that I might suddenly find some kind of enlightenment and agree with this crazy theory.

I do nothing.

"Say something," Alex encourages.

"I don't want to."

"Why?"  
"Because I don't want this to be our lives anymore. Can we just forget about it? Can we just put this down to coincidence? Can this just be another date that I got spectacularly wrong? Why do we have to..." I pinch the bridge of my nose. I breathe. This is clearly important to Alex, until we put it to rest she will not allow us to be happy. It is a big boulder in the middle of the road to a possible relationship and this is the moment she is asking me to move it out of the way. "What do you mean 'not completely'?" I ask with a sigh.

"I don't know, there was this one 'vision' thingy where she had scary-assed red eyes, full on fairground ride glowing style. That's not a vampire thing is it?"

I had stopped listening. I took a step back. it was like someone had hit me in the stomach.

"Hal?"

I shook my head. "No, not her. It... it doesn't make sense?"

"Hal, you've gone all pale."

I swallow, my mouth has gone dry. My imagination was doing somersaults. "You're imagining it." I insist again, "Bad dreams. The devil was just toying with you."

"He wasn't, anyway, ghosts don't dream. I was dead long enough to know that. I swear on the perfect beard of Robert Downy Junior! It was Belinda. She was fucking haunting me. And there was this one vision where she was with Colette and -"

"COLETTE! How do you -" a realisation dawns, weeks ago Alex had brought her up in conversation. It had seemed so out of place to odd. "Belinda never knew Colette. She couldn't have"

_'When, not where,'_ I hear Belinda in my head now, all those weeks ago, she told me then, before she made me forget. I hadn't listened.

"I can't fucking explain it," Alex continues, her tone aches with the catharsis of being able to talk about it, "but she was there, her and Colette. They were friends, sort of."

I can not say which is more disturbing; the idea that Alex has some grasp upon moments of my past and the people involved; the suggestion that, if this was true, then back when I was at my most vulnerable those I had trusted were keeping secrets from me; or that Alex had clearly been in some kind of danger and that I, caught up in my own pathetic struggles with sobriety, with shame and caprice, had failed to notice; or the fact that Belinda, had not only achieved the impossible, but had done it under my nose...and what that would mean.

I have to sit down. I sit down, struggling for a nearby bench. "Her eyes were red, you say?"

Alex nods, taking a seat beside me. "Please tell me you know what that was about."

I don't know what to say. "A long time ago, before I left with Leo, Snow summoned me to his villa, in Bolivia. It took me days to travel there. I left my colleagues to Colette's hospitality " I assume Alex knows what I mean. She asks no questions, which leads me to believe I am right. "When I arrived, the usual customs were followed. A little ritual, a little dinner, pleasantries, some hunting." Alex again, does not pry further, I do not tell the story with either shame or elation, but flatly, matter-of-fact. "We had killed a dozen people in the town, before he...Late on the second night he showed me what he had summoned me for. I didn't get a good look. He and Edgar took me down to the cellar. They were like children excited to show off a new toy, I had never seen either of them so elated in hundreds of years. I found it distasteful. They were keeping something. In the cellar."

Alex gulps, "What was it?"

"A woman, barely recognisable under the muck and blood the victims they had fed her, some of her own too I think by the smell of it. I knew that there was something different to her immediately, but could not put my finger on it. I think that was what they had found so insatiable too, the not knowing. Both of them had been alive so long, anything new must have been a tremendous coup. Lord knows what they had done to learn the secret, I never found out, but I can imagine the worst. They said she was 'mostly' vampire, but that the rest... the rest was mostly likely demonic. There had never been a demonic possession of a vampire before. It didn't make sense. It can't have been..."

"It was Belinda? Wasn't it?"

Thinking back, to that face in the darkness. I can picture the way she had looked at me now, it is as clear as a picture. I can see her. I recognise her now.

"When she saw me the demon left her. The red eyes," I explain, "it's a sign of a possession, they cleared. That I had garnered such a reaction from their prize, simply by my presence, was clearly a surprise of both my compatriot and my liege. She had clearly let her guard down, something I presume she had not done while they had been working her. It ... pleased them, that reaction. They told me to stay, to help learn the secrets, and when it was done I could have 'whatever was left'."

"Bastards!" Alex says under her breath. I agree. "I can see why you were up for blowing them up," she says.

Her joke makes me smile. "There was a man named Regus in our number. Annie and Tom met him. He was an historian. He liked to dig around in the paperwork. Snow said he had found something he would show me. Edgar joked, she was the 'future', whatever that was supposed to mean. But I didn't see the 'future', or even 'fun' or 'fate' or anything that they professed might fill the next weeks, should I decide to stay. I saw..." My words fail me as I recall my own cowardice.

Alex takes my hand.

"Hope." I say simply, "As if I was not there to harm her, but to save her. To take her away. This _thing, _as I could have only considered her then, saw in me something that was not yet there, something only incubating."

"It was her? Wasn't it?" Alex repeats, gently.

"I think it must have been, yes. I ran, Alex. I left her there."

What else had I seen? I saw that there was so much more to her than Snow or Edgar would ever be able to see, or coax from her. I saw a spark, something, among all that evil, that was still so human.

Someone coughs. We look up.

A woman in a breathtaking ballgown stands a few feet away. "I don't mean to disturb, but..."

Alex stands immediately, as do I.

"Shit, Sorry!" Alex splutters. The woman, Belinda's mother, who has clearly left the stage for reasons benownst only to herself, blushes. Alex stutters, "Fuck, sorry, shouldn't swear. Hi." Alex continues.

I hold out my hand, "We seem to have ruined your performance, Lady Highcastle, please accept my apologies, a domestic dispute is all."

She takes my hand, it is warm, clammy for one so seemingly poised. "Not at all. I just thought I would pop out, check there was nothing I could do to assist, Mr..."

"Yorke."

She pulls her hand from mine suddenly. Her elegant features crease a little before she again smiles, as if nothing is wrong, and holds her hand out to Alex.

"And from the name this charming chap was screaming into the auditorium, I take it you are Alex? Alex..."

"Mi-Miller," says Alex, grabbing Lady Highcastle's hand and, not knowing whether to bow or curtsy or something else, does a collection of all three which leaves her squatting in a very strange position.

A breathless Tom suddenly appears. I holds up one finger to catch his breath, not as fit as he was when he had wolf blood in him, and we wait. When done, he stands, "What the bloody hell is going on?" he spits, nodding at Belinda's mother, clearly unaware of who she is. "Hello."

"It's alright, Tom."

Lady Highcastle turns to stare at him.

"Tom McNair," he introduces himself, straightening himself in his smart tuxedo, which is now a little askew. He holds out his hand, which she takes. He shakes her hand a little exuberantly. Seeing our audience clearly for the first time, his saucer-like eyes widen in horror, star-struck.

She opens her mouth to speak, but stops. Lifting her fingers to her lips, she takes a short step backwards.

Alex intervenes, "Perhaps we should just go?" she says, and nudges me, "Tom what happened to your date?"

Tom shrugs, sputtering out the words without taking his eyes from Lady Highcastle, "She don't like dogs. We fell out."

"Best to go then?" I agree.

Lady Highcastle opens her mouth to speak a second time, clearly there is something on her mind.

"Really, Ma'm, you needn't trouble yourself. Best we let you return to your performance, really, we've troubled you too much."

"We should go, tonight," Alex says.

"What?"

"To my family, we're all here, let's just go straight there. Get it over and done with."

"You don't mean..."

"You were amazing like!" Tom chirps suddenly at Lady Highcastle with a surprising amount of enthusiasm. I really never pegged him as an Opera fan. He is blushing, I've seen him only ever like this once, with the late, lamentable Larry. "Absolutely...I mean...'ow'd you get those notes like 'cause they were right beautiful. Do you practice? You should go on X-Factor, they would totally make you famous and everything. You could sing for the Queen. I've a card here somewhere. Do you need an Agent, only... Can I have your autograph?" He grabs for the programme in my hand which I have twisted horrible in my worries. He cracks and twists it open, flattening it on his knee. "Hal? You got a pen, mate?"

"Hal?" Lady Highcastle asks, looking at me strangely, "You call yourself, Hal?"

Tom answers for me in a fanatical blur, "I know, it's a well daft name ain't it, but he seems to like it. We call him other stuff sometimes, don't we 'Lex, but he don't know that. What were it short of again?" He shoves the programme in her hand, "Like it's Henry, ain't it. Posh people are weird, I mean 'ow'd you get 'Hal' from 'Henry' like, only got one letter the same. Makes no sense. Pen!" He finds one in his back pocket. For a moment he seems confused as to how it had got there, so am I, but he disregards the confusion and hands it to the lady. "But anyway. It's Tom. Short for Thomas like, Big Tee, little Oh, little Em. Space." He spells. Reading over Lady Highcastle's shoulder, "And McNair, Big Em, little Cee, Big En, and then air like -"

"Yes, I think I have it," Lady Highcastle interrupts, politely, "You really are very kind Mr McNair, thank you. And Mr Yorke, Ms Miller." She nods, and continues to write as someone else appears from backstage to fetch her. "Please don't trouble yourself about any disturbance."

"Ma'm, would you mind, you're required on stage."

"Yes, yes of course, everything is okay here, isn't it?"

"Fine." Alex blushes.

"All is well, again, very sorry," I say. "It really is a spectacular show, and so good to have had the opportunity to hear you."

"Amazin'" Tom blushes, as she hands him back his pen. "Totally...just...Amazin'" He runs out of words. And takes the programme from her with pride.

"It's always so lovely to meet an aficionado," Lady Highcastle says as if reading from a script.

She looks at each of us in turn. Tom first, then Alex, then I. So sincere. So kind. So...All I can see are the two blue eyes in the darkness now, they look at me with hope, for salvation, for something more than I can give. I close the door, I run. I leave her there. After all she has done for me.

"Lady Highcastle?" the stagehand encourages flatly. He opens the door to the auditorium. It is then we realise that there is nothing coming from within except utter silence. The entire performance has been waiting for her.

"Are you sure you won't come back inside," the soprano asks, "I'm sure you will enjoy the rest of the show. And you are welcome, after, if you wish to come to my dressing room, to have a glass of wine. Whatever it is that has caused this kerfuffle you have my word we can sort it all out I'm sure. I'm quite good at these things you know?" She seems almost hopeful, desperate, for us to comply with this strange request.

"No," Alex says, "Really, I...I need to see my family, it's sort of important. If that's alright?" She sounds almost as if she is asking for permission.

"Very well," Lady Highcastle smiles, she nods, "It sounds like a plan."

Tom scratches his head, the way he used to do, as if something is puzzling him and he doesn't know how to say place it, "Sorry, again, have we met like, somewhere before? Only I can't help but think -"

Lady Highcastle shakes her head, "I really can't place that we have, Mr McNair," she smiles, "But, if we have, I'm sure it will come to you." Those words feel so specifically placed. I recall the vision I had of Belinda the night before our scrap with the devil. I have considered it an hallucination. Now, given Alex's assertions, I wonder if it was really Belinda, and not some fiction.

"Goodnight gentleman, Ms Miller." Lady Highcastle concludes, as she wafts away. The stagehand ushers her back into the auditorium and closes the door behind her. Before I turn I see her smile, nod in Alex's general direction and raise her eyebrows. I wonder what that could possibly mean for a moment, then disregard it.

Tom opens the programme hungrily to search out the autograph as we solemnly head to the door and look out into the rain. Alex takes my hand as we step outside. We have a long drive ahead of us, and at the end I am honestly no longer sure whether Alex will stay or go. If I were her, I would run a mile.

"Are you sure?" I ask.

"I'm sure," Alex says. "Once I've seen them, everything will be easier."

"I have a horrible feeling that it won't be, Alex."

She sighs, "Can you pretend, for just one second, that I'm right? Maybe?" I smile.

"I'll try."

I turn back to Tom to hurry him along. Inside the atrium he is struggling to find the page upon which he has received his scrawled prize. Hearing me whistle he rolls up the paper, tucks it in his back pocket, slips his jacket off and runs outside to catch us all under the canopy of his rented lapels, "That was so, cool! She called me an Office-nado, that's good innit?" he exclaims. I nod. "Right, which way to the car Mr Yorke, I'm starving! Kebab anyone?"

As we walk, I turn back, looking through the rain at the great hall behind us, gleaming in the night. I think of that woman in among all those people, singing her heart out. Her voice filling that vast room, bouncing off the ear drums of all those people. But I cannot help but think that there is something she was trying to say, to us, and that through all the words and moments between us just now, she was shouting at the top of her lungs, projecting into the ceiling of that very building. Yet, for all my listening, I did not hear it, because it was not something that could be heard. It was not something she could say out loud.

Like those two eyes in the darkness all those years ago. She never said a word, Belinda, not one word, but she spoke to me then, in that second. It just took me a while to work out what it was she said, with that one look, there in the darkness.

_'Hello, babes,'_ that's what she had said, and _'don't worry, I've got you, it'll all be okay.'_

It wasn't hope for herself, that was what I got wrong, I think, back then. Was this what she meant, when she saw me head into the bar the night Natasha died? _'It'll come to you'_ she said. And it has.

She _had_ hope that moment she saw me in the doorway. But that hope, she had, was for me.


	26. Don't think Do

**Chapter 26 - Don't think. Do.**

The bodies, the wreckage, the streets stained with blood. This is bad. This is very, very bad. To Izzy it brings back memories that she had long since suppressed; of murders and wars and rampages, times when she had felt so powerless.

_No. Stop it, don't dwell, don't think, just do something._

_Anything!_

Without further hesitation Izzy grabs for Colette's arm. She closes her eyes. She thinks of something, somewhere else, where then might be. Frankly anywhere would be a step up from a beach full of bloated dead bodies. When she wills herself away they could have ended up anywhere, so deep was her desperation to escape from that sight, from those memories.

As it happens, the transportation brings them to... Izzy, opening her eyes, looks upon the strange, grey lump of a building to which she has moved herself and her vampire companion. Not quite what she was expecting, but at least marginally less littered with death. Marginally.

The building is large, very large, official looking, with some of those great big satellite dishes outside. There seems to be a reception area behind some glass doors and, moving a little closer, Izzy can just about make out... She gulps. More bodies.

She shrugs, "Well, at least I've still got it," she says. The very tiny part of her mind that is not preoccupied with thinking about the very real, not-so-pending-anymore, Apocalypse that is taking place around them, feels better for the recognition of their success. She turns to receive comparable praise for her efforts.

Unfortunately Colette is less impressed than Izzy had hoped. Stunned, would be a better description of the look upon the french woman's porcelain features.

"What the...? How did we...?" Colette picks herself up off the grass and stares, wide eyed, clutching at her chest as if in shock.

"Oh shit, sorry. Should I have warned you before doing that?"

"Yes! Don't do it again," Colette snaps, adjusting her skirt and digging out her shoe from the muddy embankment upon which they had appeared. "Would you kindly tell me where we are?"

Izzy carefully sidesteps the fact that she has no clue where they have landed with a shrug.

"You don't know!" Colette snaps.

"I wouldn't say that."

"Then..."

"We're not on a beach suffering a bad case of dead-body dandruff!"

Colette makes a distinctly angry french huff, there could have been some swear words in there which Izzy has no hope of comprehending. The way that her compatriot waves her shoes in Izzy's face and spurts fast paced sentences in her general direction rather suggests Izzy is now in Colette's bad books.

"Look, we really can't afford to be arguing right now. Bad stuff is happening," Izzy says, trying to calm her down.

"You don't say!" Colette snaps as she notices, to add insult to injury, a grass stain on her blouse. Another round of incomprehensible slurs follows.

Here they are. The world's only hope: a pair of bickering dead women?

Colette seems to get the hint when Izzy fails to rise to the bait. Her questioning then follows in a calmer manner, "So, where do you _think _we are?"

"I don't know" Izzy finally admits, "Would you believe that I just closed my eyes and thought of Hal."

"Hal?" Colette's spine straightens. She glances around them. "Hal's _here_? I don't see him."

"I'm assuming he's in there." Izzy points at the building beside which they have landed.

"What is it?" Colette asks.

"I don't know. Some kind of television centre I think."

"Why would he be in there?"

"I don't know!" Izzy repeats. These questions are not helping her think. She takes a deep breath. "Maybe we should go in and find out. Or we could try elsewhere?" She extends her hand towards Colette, waiting for her to take it so they can spirit them both inside. Colette frowns at the offered hand. Her eyes widen.

"Non! We are not doing that again. No way."

"Colette look, I mean it, we really can't-"

"Izzy!"

"I'm serious, we-"

"No, Izzy, turn around."

"What?"

"Behind you!"

Turning, they see at least a dozen white vans powering down the driveway towards them.

"Who-?" Izzy begins. When she turns back she finds her companion is no longer there. Colette is hiding behind a nearby tree. "Christ, she can move fast in those shoes,"Izzy says as she pads over to her.

"Who do you think they are?" Colette asks.

"Police?"

"No, no sirens."

"Undercover maybe?"

Colette shrugs.

The vans surround the building, covering all possible exits as men emerge from the vans at speed. There are a flock men in grey suits. Then there are the military looking lot, carrying what looks like body bags, tear gas grenades and guns...Lots of guns.

"What the hell is happening in there?" Colette wonders, shaking her head in disbelief.

"There's only one way to find out." Izzy replies, "Come on." She extends her hand once more.

Colette looks at it for a moment, then at the building surrounded by grey men, then back at Izzy. "Okay then."

* * *

"Trust me," someone says. His tone superior, dancing with piqued confidence.

It is the first thing that Izzy hears when they arrive inside. She whirls around, seeking out the source of that oh, so familiar voice.

The studio into which she has transported them is both brightly lit and oppressively dark. They have arrived behind a large screen which encircles the room. It is brightly lit, the shadows of over a dozen people are cast about them against the painted grey globe. They are cast tall on the screen, like giants straddling the world.

The voice is coming from the other side of the screen. One of those shadows is Hal.

Colette has clearly recognised it too. She moves to walk around the screen to just get a glimpse of what he is up to. Izzy signals frenetically for the vampire to stay put. If whatever is happening is something that they should not be interrupting then the last thing they need is Colette's damned heels on this floor. She pulls her back and edges as close as she can to the edge so that she can get some kind of idea about what they are dealing with. One step at a time, she places her bare toes forth, tiptoeing to be certain no one catches ear of her ghostly footsteps, until she can safely peer around the side.

When she does see what they are facing, she slaps her hand over her mouth to silence her gasp.

Between Izzy and Colette, Hal and his friends, there is a man in a suit standing with his back to them. Not to mention the half a dozen or so weird zombie people. Two of them are required to restrain Tom, it seems. Alex is there too. She is holding a flask and seems intent upon drinking the contents, but though she sees all this, none of that really registers with Izzy.

There is Hal. Standing in the middle of it all. Covered in blood.

_Shit! Christ, not again. _She feels her eyes begin to burn but wills herself not to cry, that is not what she does anymore. She doesn't wallow in self pity, she does...stuff. _Come on Izzy, think. Maybe it's not blood? Maybe he's not..._

"Any last requests?" Hal snarls, "Actually, forget it, I don't give a shit."

_Nope. He's back to his old self. Wait, what does he mean, "last requests"? _Izzy wonders, before it all slots horribly into place.

The flask. The trinity. The apocalypse: they're doing the ritual. _Shit._

"What's going on?" Colette interrupts as quietly as she can muster. She has taken off her shoes and walked over in bare feet. Izzy opens her mouth but no sound comes out.

"Hal, the idiot, is going to kill himself," Izzy tries to explain, without making Colette panic.

"WHAT!" Colette spits in whispered horror.

No such luck, "And if they're doing the ritual then that means the guy in the suit must be..."

She stares at Colette slackjawed, where the hell does she start to explain all this?

* * *

**"Bang!"**

* * *

There are two, quite clear thuds behind them. Izzy cannot speak, she literally can not find the words that can cover all this in one succinct sentence.

Colette, however, finds just the right one.

"Linny?" she says, softly. It is a word full of both realisation and pain.

"What?" Izzy stutters.

Colette, as if unable to say anything more, points.

Slowly, and terrified of what she might see, Izzy turns back to see what the Devil is up to. The sudden silence of Hal and his friends, and the sudden ability for Colette to be more gifted at explaining anything than she has been to date, was not filling Izzy with gut loads of confidence.

Then she sees her. Standing there, bold as brass, over Hal and Tom who seem to have collapsed, unconscious on the floor, is Belinda Weaver. The sudden appearance of their apparently dead friend is marked only by the absence of - "Where's Alex?"

"Who?" Colette snaps in horror, as if this is not the response she had expected at such a sight. Understandable really.

"Alex," Izzy says, "the ghost, she was standing right-" Her knees wobble. She feels sick. She can't even _be_ sick. This is not good. This is very not good. She needs to sit down. Walking into the darkness behind the screen she stumbles away from the eye line of The Devil and his slaves and that..._thing_ before her knees give way. Izzy realises they were too late.

Colette is at her side almost immediately which, considering her old lover has just manifested from apparent death before their very eyes, is quite flattering really.

"Izzy," Colette whispers, "I think you have some explaining to do."

"You know how I needed a vampire to get me signed out of Customs," Izzy begins. Colette nods, "Well, I know that because it happened before, the whole purgatory..." she waves her arms about in the air as if searching for the best way to explain. All her words have failed her, "...thing."

"When?"

"Before we met. It was Linny who got me out," she whispers hurriedly.

"Then why..."

"Did I go back?"

"One of many questions, yes."

"I worked out Linny's secret."

"And?" Colette asks hungrily.

"I don't know how, or why, but I think she might have drunk an awful lot of Demon-blood once. It would be the only explanation I've come up with anyway."

"How much?"

"Roughly a whole one I'd guess."

"A whole what?"

"Demon. They exist. Big reveal..."

Colette shakes her perfect hair in disbelief.

"Anyway, she may have, sort of, maybe, got possessed... a bit."

"A bit?!"

"A lot."

"And you did not think to tell me? This why she left, isn't it?"

"I think so. I confronted her, but by then it was too late. She ripped up the form from Purgatory, the copy..."

"I'm thinking of doing much the same."

"...a door appeared. She sent me back. Been there since. Anyway, from what I've seen of possessions before once the 'host' or whatever kills itself, which is the normal outcome, or dies, the _thing_ takes over properly using the ghost's energy. Normally that means the ghost goes poof. As you might say, voila!"

"But Linny was a vampire. Vampires don't become ghosts."

Izzy grits her teeth again, "It presumed she would have been piggybacking on Hal's friend Alex. I thought we could get to Alex in time, before...This is bad, really bad."

Lights flash and pop. Darkness drops down on them all like a sack of coal, thick, bitter and painful.

"Fuck," says the Devil.

Izzy stares at Colette in the dark, feeling for her to ensure she knows they are both there. Could this really get worse?

Yes. Yes it can. Suddenly the whole room fills up with the sound of horror. Izzy and Colette run to the edge of the screen to get a better look. They watch, like ogling drivers at the sight of a car crash, as the gathered zombies fall, one by one to the floor in pain, half lit from the little light which remains. The devil makes a phone call.

There are only a few of the humans left alive, four of them sport Hal and Tom between them like garish accessories. Izzy looks at Colette. Colette looks at Izzy. Clearly they are both thinking the same thing: in this darkness, with all the confusion, they could totally take them.

The window of opportunity is small.

It gets a whole lot smaller when they both step out from the safety of the screen and into the path of two of the zombies that are still on their feet. For a moment, no one moves. The zombie people stare at the vampire and ghost. Their heads tilt to one side, seeming to not know what to do.

Izzy quietly hopes that the minions are brain dead enough to not notice them if they remain still, like sharks...or is that bears? Maybe it's dragons? Either way, Colette clearly has the same idea. Izzy and she freeze too, waiting to see if the humans will make a move.

It is during this silent mexican standoff that Izzy notices a horrible glow beyond the mute wall before them. Right in the middle of the large room is something that was not there before: a large, wooden, red door. It stands there without the aid of a wall. It is as if it has been delivered there, where it glows ominously, pristinely painted. It cracks ajar. It opens.

Beyond the minions that are barring their way, the Devil opens the door towards him and gestures to Linny with a warm smile. "Ladies first," he says. With a gentle but excited skip the woman who was once their friend dances inside.

The Devil then beckons for the humans carrying Hal and Tom. They lie limply in the arms of their captors, completely oblivious to anything that is happening around them. Izzy wants to scream to wake them, or at least to stop what is happening. But she does not. She is just one ghost, and Colette is just one vampire; alone they stand no chance against the angel of fricking darkness. Dumbass brain-dead zombie camera-men maybe...Lucifer, in a nice hat, no chance.

At best, Izzy fathoms, she will just get Colette killed. That would be a hell of a way to repay her friend for fetching her back to reality. They need Linny. Or what might be left of Linny. Linny had a plan. Maybe even one that might work. Failing that, they would at least need a werewolf. A new trinity, or something like the old one.

So that was what needed to be done then? They need Tom to not be dead. They need Linny to not be possessed by a fucking demon, or to at least give up the intricacies of her plan. And hopefully, all being well, and for no other reason that he is who he has always been, they need Hal to not be dead. She can put up with him being evil. But dead is a definite no no.

Easy peasy, demon squeezy.

She looks to Colette, hoping for an idea.

"What do we do?" Colette whispers out of the side of her mouth, "Do we follow?"

Colette seems as conflicted as Izzy. No joy there then.

Then again, they had the benefit of having not yet being discovered, or at least noticed, by the demon in the room. Maybe there was a way? Hal and Tom were getting moved further away, closer to _that_ door. Izzy isn't certain about much at the moment, pretty much all the plans she had come up with had turned to shit in a very small space of time. But what she does know is that she can't let what is left of the Trinity go through that door, at least not alone. Colette is right, someone has to follow. Someone who can go undetected.

In an instant, Izzy has an idea. It is not a good idea, she would admit that. But it is all she has, it is something to post through that the window of opportunity (or perhaps door would be more appropriate) that was is literally closing.

The Devil dips inside, the minions follow carrying first Hal, then Tom.

This is it!

This is the moment!

Don't think, Izzy, do!

With hardly a conscious thought, and hardly a look to her friend, she closes her eyes and focuses on the plan. In an instant she is an arms reach of the door, knowing she would have no luck in teleporting inside, but from her landing point she can just make it. Just. Marginally. She moves into a run to follow them before hearing a cry out. _Shit, Colette. _She didn't have time to explain.

Colette, having seen her friend vanish before her eyes has lurched into combat mode. She has let rip on the two humans who stood in their way. Once they are dead there is perhaps time to let her through too. Izzy tries to hold the door back from closing but she cannot. It has a life, and heft, of its' own. All the power in the world can not will it to remain open longer than the Devil wished it to be.

Then of course there is the fact that she knows very well what might lie beyond that door. Why go through at all?

She had seen it before, back when she had accidentally stumbled into the darker parts of purgatory, back when she had felt what fear really was. Before Steve had saved her, led her back to the comforting monotony of limbo, away from the fouled corners of the afterlife, she had seen a door just like this one.

If she couldn't hold it back could she really step inside? Even for Hal? Even for the sake of humanity, for a world which had only been hers for barely a breath in the great expanse of her existence. The humanity she had lived was a hiccup of an event compared to everything else. It was all so distant now, that life. Wasn't there more fun and joy to be had in her memories of it. Back where it was safe, in limbo. Humanity could keep their future, whatever it was. What did she owe them? What did she owe this world after all? What did she owe Hal?

But then...What was she if not impulsive and prone to doing stupid things, like trying to show the worst vampire ever that he was capable of something as futile as all that humanity she was hesitating to save. How could she help Hal if she was too selfish to do it herself.

Izzy smiles. Resolved. Colette is probably going to hate her for this, if she gets out in one piece that is.

Closing her eyes. Counting to three, which is about as much time as she has, Izzy steps inside.

As the door closes she catches a final glimpse of Colette who meets her eyes, as the whole room suddenly floods with torch light as the men from outside finally break into the studio. Each and every one of those beams focuses directly at her friend, who stands with two blooded humans at her feet and a dozen dead around her. Colette's look, however, is not one of rage, nor of shock. She reaches out, as if in one gesture she could grasp for Izzy and pull her out and every inch of her is asking for help.

"I'm sorry," Izzy mouths to the vampire. The door closes behind her.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks to the lovely Ms ShoePigeon for the help on this chapter. **


	27. Motions

**Chapter 27 - Motions**

"Having heard both the arguments for and against the motion," Tom says, in his best chairman voice despite yawning, "I will open the debate to the floor for vote."

"Tom?" I say with a sigh.

Alex eyes me suspiciously. "No swaying the vote, Mr," she says from the passenger seat.

We arrived just after dawn, tired, following a mostly silent journey north. Prior to that night myself, Tom and Alex (mostly myself) had planned the route. The one agreed preferable was that which would limit our service station stops to the bare minimum. This was confirmed, by all, to be the best option given the experiences of our last trip. Even now such places filled me with anxious dread. I may no longer need to rely on my personal pecadillos to help temper any kind of murderous urges, but the terror when coming across these motoway meccas to communicable disease is still very real. Alex could see this, so could Tom. Had Tom not drunk three bottles of beer (can the man not get by an hour without liquid?) at the Millenium Centre before we set off, we would not have needed to stop at all!

"All in favour of the motion raise your hand and say 'Aye'." A hand is raised.

As it had turned out I needn't have been too worried. The first service station, which we had stopped at, was a gleaming paradise of cleanliness. There were no children, truckers, old people, bus parties, dog-owners, late night salesmen, fast food vendors or children. I had checked. Twice. The floors gleamed. The ceilings glittered. The food served was at a temperature not likely to give even the most sensitive stomach noro. It had seemed as if even the air had been purified.

I had declared that I found this to be odd. Alex had said I was paranoid.

"All against the motion raise your hand and say 'Nay'." A hand is raised.

"Do we really have to go through all this?"

"Shut up, Hal," says Alex.

It would not be something I would normally have had cause to dwell upon except that, while at said service station Tom purchased a fast food meal, large, for himself. Given humanity has not enlarged the capacity of his bladder we had required a second stop not long after. I had cause to pause, surprised, upon finding that the second sidestation was equally as pristine. Unaturally so. Alex had implied they must have heard I was coming. I was not so sure. I am still not. I have a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. Based on the hospital cleanliness of our recent haunts I know it is not ecoli, I would prefer it if it was.

"You're the only one who can vote, Tom," I sigh as we continue with this bunkum, looking at Tom, perched in the backseat with both of his arms in the air.

It was not long after we had arrived at Alex's family home that I suggested, as diplomatically as I could, that perhaps it was best if I broke the news to them before she entered the house; the alternative plan being that Alex just turned up on the step to give her poor father a heart attack.

"Yeah, I know," he acknowledges my words without really grasping my point.

I have spent the last thirty minutes trying all my best tactics to persuade her out of her course of action. The motion 'should Alex doorstep her father proving her present state of life' was raised...

"He voted Aye!" Alex helpfully points out.

I smile, plactatory, "Alex, he also voted Nay."

Alex's argument was almost four words long. When I asked why she was certain I was wrong she had argued, shrugging, "Cause he's my Dad."

"They were both dead good arguments like," Tom explains the reasoning behind his votes.

I suggest that the finer points in the act of debate had clearly not been reached in his training with Allison.

"Hey, there's nae need to be mean, Hal."

"Well he clearly doesn't get it."

"Maybe I should call Allison?" Tom says with a worry, as if she alone happens to be the custodian of the rules of debate. I am about to launch into an exasperated explaination, tired after a night of driving, worried to my depths, and convinced once Alex leaves this car she will not come back.

"That's a great idea," Alex encourages, ensuring I realise that this is the first time Tom has suggested contacting Allison without encouragement from either of us. I get the point.

I sigh, "That's a great idea, Tom."

Tom shuffles in his seat, the urge fails him, "I dunno, maybe later."

Alex sighs. "Fuck it, I'm going in. Motion carried like a big splashy one. You, both, stay here," she says as she opens the door.

I reach out to stop her. She pauses and looks me in the eye. "Hal?"

Words momentarily fail me.

"I'll be fine, Hal. You can let go now," she says softly. Her turn to be diplomatic.

I smile, "You know I can't."

"It'll be fine. I'll be fine. I need to do this."

Somehow I feel this time she's telling the truth. Alex is fine. I let go.

She closes the door and heads, chest puffed out with fortitude, towards her old front door. I turn my head, eyes front soldier, as if the closer she gets to the door, and thus the further from me, will be averted if I do not look.

Perhaps it would have, had it not been for the running commentary delivered by Tom.

"She's crossing the road."

"I can see that, Tom."

"She's on the steps."

"Please, Tom."

"She's up the steps."

"Tom."

"She's at the front door."

"I'm not looking."

"She's knocking aaht the front door."

Suddenly worried, I turn to look. I am convinced that her father, if not rendered into cardiac arrest when he sees her, might call the police, shut the door in her face, or try to kill her.

I unclip my seatbelt and reach across in a panic towards the passenger seat in order to roll down the window. The rubber trim falls off in the hurry.

"I wouldn't worry abaaht that if I were you," Tom says with a cough. "You were just a bit heavy handed wiv it is all."

I don't. Mercedes be damned. "Be gentle!" I cry at her through the half open window.

"What?!" she cries back, half unable to hear across the street.

"With your father! Be gentle!"

She smiles, looking at me. A big gleaming grin. She is all teeth and postbox lips. She does not notice the door open. A large, bear-like, bearded man in a tired dressing gown appears behind her.

"Me? I'm nothin' bu gentle, babes!" she yells back, turning, and coming face to face with the man who sees her. He drops his mug with horror.

The mug bounces down the steps, 'World's Best Dad', it says. It seems strangely familiar. I'm sure we used to have one just like it.

Alex's father can say nothing. He does not die. He does not slam the door in Alex's face. He does not cry, or collapse in a bubbling heap. He does not kill her, threaten her, maim her or otherwise bring her to harm. He stands in amazement as Alex throws herself around his great shoulders like a warm wind, holding onto him, swallowing him up in her embrace. It seems no words are required to explain between father and daughter. Perhaps she was right after all.

"Hal?" says Tom.

I have never felt an embrace like that. I doubt I ever shall. Her father looks back at Tom and I in the car, catching our eyes with a confused smile. I raise my hand in an awkward salute of a wave. He does the same. It says 'hello, here we are, the men in this magnificent woman's life'. Her life. All of it, all that living. It stretches out, for her as it does for me. We have both, in our own way, come back to life I suppose, but unlike Alex I have already lived over a dozen lives, there is little left I have need to see or do, few I need to share my time between.

"Hal?" says Tom.

I feel keenly that Alex has so much life to live. It would be almost cruel of me to wish her to waste it with me, wouldn't it? She has barely seen the world. How can I deprive her of it, or it of her? I am blessed to have had the time I have had with her, in her death. Nothing I have done suggests I might deserve a share of the life before her. I can not ask her to waste these years, her regenerated youth, on me. I won't, not a second time, I will not beg. But I will admit, selfishly, that I hope I get a share.

"Hal?" says Tom.

There was something I was worrying about. I can't for the life of me remember what it was, all I know is that if she comes back to me, whether it be for five minutes, an hour, a day, week, month, year or the rest of our natural lives, for however long, I will cherish every second in the same way Alex cherishes that embrace with her father. I will hold onto her like she is holding onto him. Metaphorically.

"Hal?" says Tom, leaning over. He hugs the passenger seat head rest and is panting like an overheating dog after attention.

"WHAT!"

He has interrupted my view of Alex as her father draws her into their house and shuts the door behind them. I resist the urge to hit him on the nose.

"You need to see this."

He shoves the Opera programme in front of me and waves it like a fool. I snatch it from him.

"Look, I know you're star struck, Tom, but this really isn't -"

"Mate, just look at it."

"Alex has just been reunited with her father!"

He shakes his head. "I dunno," he says and pulls a face.

I can't quite comprehend him. Really, sometimes trying to understand Tom's expressions is like doing the Times cryptic in Arameic, while inebriated on hooch and hanging upside down from my ankles, "What the hell is up with you?"

I look at the page of the programme he has flung in my general direction and turn grey with horror. Throwing it on the passenger seat I just about make it out of the driver side door to get some fresh air before I throw up my dinner from the night before.

There are three words which that Lady Highcastle had scrawled on the programme instead of an autograph. They read, painfully, ...


	28. An autograph

Not

Your

Alex.

* * *

_End of Part 2._


	29. The Last Straw

**Part 3 - Best laid schemes**

* * *

**Chapter 29 - The Last Straw**

Richard takes a seat in the plush leather of the plane and settles back. He sighs as the flight attendant leans down towards him and places a clinking glass of chilled water on the table. He lifts his hat, from where it shields his tired eyes from the sun as it streams through the window. He smiles at her. She returns the favour. "Anything I can get you, Sir?"

"You don't happen to have a few hundred million dollars on you, perhaps?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

She placates, "Nuts? Perhaps?"

He shakes his head.

"A paper?"

He politely declines.

"Any other kind of drink?" She unbuttons her wrist-cuff.

"Perhaps, later," he smiles, if only to send her on her way. There is so much to think about.

"Of course, just press the button once we are in flight," she says. He watches her wiggle away to her safety seat before he raises the glass to his forehead, rolling it back and forth.

Wales. He hates Wales. He had got as close as he could bear in the years spent in Bristol all that time ago, perhaps that was why he loathed it so much. He remembered the feudal countryside of the place like a bad hangover.

A weight lands in the seat beside him. He turns.

"What?" says Hettie, "You really think I was going to let you balls this up too?"

"You? Wales? Really?"

"Happiest Place on Earth."

"Isn't that Disneyland?"

Hettie looks at him through her fringe as if he has just claimed the earth was made of candy floss and kitten poop. "No," she smiles with a snap before deadpanning him like a pro, "No, that would be Off Strip Vegas with a thick O-neg stripper on one arm and a bucket of chips in the other. Oi, Bar-snacks Barbie!" she calls for the flight-attendant. The attendant comes over obediently.

"Whisky, Oban, double, no ice," snaps Hettie.

"You don't need to come, Hettie," Richard sighs, he really can take only so much of the potty-mouthed little munchkin. "I'm perfectly capable of..."

Hettie laughs like a car backfiring.

"Of what? Losing all of our money. Chickening out of any responsibility? Shitting up every opportunity we gave you and somewhere in the middle leaving me to clean up _your_ mess?"

"If you're referring to New York again, " Richard groans. "Want to get something off your flat chest, my dear?"

"Of course I'm referring to New York, dunce knuckles. In the midst of our Havana negotiations and Snow rang my bell about a little cleanup - YOUR little cleanup! That shit took years to smooth over. All because you couldn't keep a lead on your assignment."

"Havana played a nice profit, if I recall, which it wouldn't have if _you _had stayed. Fidel wasn't too keen on your lip."

"Men with beards give me the screaming heebies. Anyway, the point is that _she_ was your scramble to fry. She was your responsibility and you lost her. You only managed to convince me to draw straws because I was gazeboed on Havana Club with cabana boy special. Lucky for all involved you let me keep the straw. Only bloody help _you _were was that little toy you gave me. "

"If I recall, you insisted, and you were supposed to bring that 'little toy' back in a matter of days."

The plane picks up speed and begins to pull away from the runway.

"Yeah, well. None of us, not even Snow, knew what that cuckoo was capable of," she says, cracking out her cigarettes and starting on the chain of fifty Rothman which would carry her over the Atlantic.

* * *

_New York._

_Tuesday, April 12th, 1960_

* * *

The big jet lumbered towards the terminal. Terrence and Mildred, sitting beside each other, nursing matching bags of foil-covered peanuts and flat G&Ts, were dressed in their First Class best; near matching stiff tweed. Terrence's outfit was breasted and cut. Mildred was tailored and trim. Despite the eight hour flight, which both had endured, not a hair was out of place on Mildred's head and Terrence's moustache was straight. He barely ruffled it at all when a spatter of blood caught his glasses. He slipped his thumb to the glass and wiped it away, naturally reluctant to interfere as the flight stewardess crashed to the floor between the empty seats opposite.

The other passengers seated in First Class, all well dressed young men finishing up their morning coffees and cordials, raised their heads a little at the disturbance. Terrence met the curious gaze of the fellow nearest to them across the aisle. He shrugged, seeming to say 'Kids'. The man furrowed his brow, shook his head and went back to his newspaper.

Mildred, openly stared, as their well dressed 'charge' tore into the neck of the offending stewardess. She gripped for Terrence's arm and whispered, "Dear, should she perhaps -?" Terrence shushed her.

It would be fine. There wasn't even a drop of blood on the girl's pinafore.

The prim little outfit, which the stewardess was sporting, was a different story. The thin jacket had torn open. The woman's blood was seeping into her cleavage in a gush. Her white gloved fingers uncurled from the base of the leather seat, which she had been gripping, in a vain attempt to right herself. Her pillbox hat pressed against the sidewall was in a bit of a tatter and the heel of her shoe had split in the fall.

The appetites of the Old Ones were well known, but Hettie was rather infamous all on her own. She knew that Mildred thought it was quite uncouth for a lady of her stature, but that amused Hettie all the more. The stewardess gurgled her last as Hettie unpinned the tiny tin wings the woman had tried to placate her with. With a happy click of her tongue, the pin went through the stewardess's eye. All this because the young stewardess wouldn't allow Hettie her cigarettes?

"Such a waste," Mildred tutted to Terrence under her breath.

Hettie raised her head above the leather seat, and delivered her 'parents' a disparaging and threatening glare before dropping the dead trolly-dolly, finally sated.

Terrence, who was altogether less fussed than Mildred, nodded to their men in the First Class cabin with them, who were readying themselves. They would ensure the disappearance of the body, but they had to do it quickly.

Still straddling the dead girl, Hettie retrieved her cigarette case and flipped her zippo into light. She slipped the Rothman between her lips and inhaled deeply, relieving the cigarette of at least a third of its tobacco in an ashy column, before leaning in to blow smoke into the face of her victim.

She sighed, "Fuck yeah," and took a few more quick drags. Standing, and licking her lips clean of any last evidence, she admired her work. Terrence and Mildred averted their eyes when she turned to them. "Come on, minions, we've work to do."

Early morning in the Big Apple was sight to behold, and behold it Hettie did. She hung out of the window of their hired limousine, well on her way through her fourth Rothman. Taxi horns, pigeons, people, squalor, steam and splendour passed her by in a messy whir. The full-moon from the night before was still faintly visible in the dawn light as the cold sun appeared to knock it from the sky.

"Seriously, what the fuck are all these assholes doing up this early?"

Neither Terrence nor Mildred answered her. Good.

The limousine turned onto Fifth Avenue as Hettie flicked the butt of her smoke towards Central Park. It shattered into sparks on the hoof of a sleepy horse that clopped along beside, drawing an empty carriage behind it, damp in the morning dew.

"Americans and their nostalgia. Pah!" Hettie grimaced, as the architectural wank-off of the the Guggenheim Museum spiralled into view. Suffice to say, Hettie was not a fan of so-called 'modern' architecture.

"Fucking finally already," she spat, and did not wait for the limo to come to a stop before she opened the door and stepped onto the sidewalk with a skip. The drizzle and puddles splashed onto her patent red shoes as several other town cars arrived behind them bearing the members of their team. The only other vehicle stopped at the museum entrance was a single squad car. An officer, a vampire, stepping out to greet them. Another was stationed at the closed entry, if possible he was more pale than he should be for a member of the undead.

Approaching Hettie, the officer bowed. She rolled her eyes. Undeterred, the New York vampire shook Terrence's hand. "This is a little overt, don't you think?" he drawled.

"Oi!" Hettie kicked the officer in his blue-clad shin, with an exasperated huff. "You'll be speaking with me, Dickwad!" The man turned red in the face as Hettie continued, "You want this shit storm cleaned up before nine or not?"

"Eh... yeah... I don't think you quite got the message on this one your uh ...Majesty?"

"I got the message that New York needs a swift kick in the ass. Fuck-off Teddy boy. I know who's in there. You think we haven't been keeping tracks on her?" Hettie spat. "You just count your little white socks that it's me who's here to deal with what you fucktards couldn't. Snow would have flayed you alive. I may yet. This shit ruined my party. Werewolves in Havana don't come easy you know. We had politicos left in the lurch because your lot couldn't pep up."

Terrence finally balled up and interjected awkwardly, his posh accent contrasting sharply with Hettie's fuming, "Yes, well. You see, we will be requiring the use of your networks. This is an intervention. Sorry, chap."

Mildred held up one candy apple red manicured talon to address the gruff New York vampire, "And if you would be so kind to arrange for breakfast dear? Not _all _of us have eaten."

"Ma'am, I've seen some scenes go down in my day, but what's in there? May turn you off."

Hettie struck up another Rothman with a cheshire grin. With smoke oozing between her teeth, she winked. "Lead the way, Toots"

The officer's jaw clenched. He bit his tongue and gave a nod to the vampire on guard who unlocked the heavy chain barring the door. He turned to lead them through the threshold. "This way, Ma'am."

The door opened silently.

Hettie was hit with the smell first. Acrid and heavy, it cut under the smoke of her burning cigarette and put her right off the thing. With one last drag Hettie admired the view of the carnage before her. It looked rather artistic, on first impression.

The building was polished. It still had the dust of construction behind its ears. The interior walls of the spiral walkway circling up from the lobby floors, should have been white. Even from six stories up blood could be seen, trailing down like paint, glooping from the spiral sidewalls in spurts and splatters against the stark white plaster. At the very top, where the nautilus abutted the column, a tux sleeved arm hung, impaled by the fabric on a steak knife. The body, well, Hettie was pretty sure the arm belonged to the mass of pulpy mess in the middle of the broken buffet table below it.

Hettie dropped the butt of her cigarette and ground it out as the clean-up team filed in to flank her. They stood behind her, a silent army. Dumbstruck, they too stopped to take in the impressively hellish display.

The lobby floor was littered with crushed crudité, broken champagne glasses, overturned tables, smeared cream tarts and orphaned limbs askew. Assessing quickly, Hettie counted the bits of what seemed to be well over 50 once well attired people. That was what she could see! Eyeing the creviced gangways, as they spiralled upwards, she wondered how many more prizes the nautilus swirls contained. Ten rabid starved vampires locked in a cocktail party could not do this much damage! Keeping all the prey contained inside would have been the main problem, not to mention the strength required to tear them all apart like that. All this was from one scrawny ginger? The bitch was still here, Hettie was certain of it!

"Snow and his bloody pets," Hettie huffed.

She gave a nod of her head to the men behind her, the scared quimms who had watched the rest go first. "Get up there! Take her down!"

Caught between the wrath of an Old One and whatever lay above, many of them did not know where to turn. Hettie hissed. Suitably told, half flanked left, searching the scene and the other right to check the wings, silent as only they could be.

Terrence and Mildred on the other hand, remained standing near the exit.

Mildred coughed politely, "Do you need us, dear? Perhaps we'd better..." Her whisper wilted with an eyeroll from Hettie. Staring across the floor, daintily as she could, Mildred forged the way around sticky heel prints, indistinguishable lumps of meat, and congealed puddles of blood.

Officer Teddy and his speechless partner followed the confident Old One as she approached the base of the ramp. Blood trails like grooved sled tracks paved the way up, up and up.

As they climbed higher a horrible hum suddenly began to echo from the walls, occasionally punctuated by a cacophonous laugh, "humm, hum, hummm...haa...ha-ha...laaa laa la la...babe..." It turned into a walloping sing-song across the upper cavern. "If I get scaaaaared, you're aa-always aroooound!"

Mildred put her hands over her ears, "What in the name of the devil is that?"

"Well shit-on-a-stick," hissed Hettie. "So much for sneaking up panther style. She knows we're here. Has anyone seen that ghost of hers, the girlfriend? We were convinced they were good enough to keep her in check?" she asked Officer Ted who shook his head.

"She arrived three days ago. We clocked the ghost day one, not seen her since. Nothing to report until - "

"Who?" Terrance asked, wild-eyed, his moustache was now distinctly ruffled.

"Never mind," said Hettie and snapped her fingers. Several of the crew peeled away from their sweep to join the others. Following the spiral ramp up, they ascended.

"I got you to hold my ha-aa-and!" their insane quarry sang with surprising depth.

Along the way it became evident to Hettie that there was more to this display than just a bloodbath.

"I got you to uuuunderstand! Doo-doo-doo..." squeaked the voice with a laugh. Every word sounded horribly placed, laced with threat. Her notes seemed to be positioned as systematically, intentional in appearance, as the human body parts that lay parcelled out amongst the artworks. "I got you to walk with me! Doo-doo-doo..."

Hettie admired a glistening trachea, which hung off a Kandinsky mobile like a comical scarf, dripping fluids onto the floor below. One of her crew slipped in the spoils behind them.

"Careful, Fuckfangs!" she snarled.

"I got you to talk with me! Doo-doo-doo..." There was a clash and a clatter from above.

The crowd of armed vampires hesitated.

"Keep going!" Hettie ordered, stopping only briefly in order to contemplate a cloud of smudged, red handprints that framed the Chagall. "It's almost impressive," she sighed, pointing it out to Terrance who passed alongside. "Really, the effort it must have taken to do that. I preferred the spleen stuck to the Max Ernst with a cocktail swivel. That was quite artful."

"I got you to kiss goodnight! Doo-doo-doo..."

The trill drew the attention of both Hettie and her 'carers' to the real prize. It was a true shining work of a brilliant madness. A sculpture in obscurance was placed halfway to the apex. It was a fat marble spire, five feet in length but its marble protrusion was now unnaturally streaked, darkened with blood and offal where it protruded like a grotesque stalagmite through a slumped stomach.

"Oh, the fuck, no!" Even Hettie's normally flourished speech was stunted as she stared at it. For once, silenced.

Terrence's moustache was now a disaster zone. "Holy Hell!" he muttered. His eyes followed the skewer upwards to its pinnacle, upon which the head of the body had been perched, slackjawed, eyes rolled back.

Mildred slipped in a pool of blood and broke a nail, her tweed skirt ripped. "Shit!" she swore, finally breaking her prim exterior.

"I got you to hold me tight.

I got you, I won't let go! Doo-doo-doo...

I got you to lo-oo-ove me sooo. Doo-doo-doo... Doo-doo-doo... Doo-doo-doo..."

Finally, Hettie approached the skewered body. It was a Cardinal! Of all things! She went and killed a freaking red hat? This was going to be a bitch to keep under wraps!

Officer Ted clearly recognised him, "Cardinal Biondi," he said, holding back the urge to vomit. "He was one of the conclave delegates in Rome two years ago. Big fuss."

"You're catholic?"  
"Was."

Hettie read the splattered label on the wall behind, "'_Bird in Space'_. Bloody hell. Abstract expressionism can suck my balls, I don't care what Regus says, but this wackjob is going down. I'm not going to war with the fracking dogmatics again. Lads?"

Teddy's officer held back, mouth agape like a stuck fish while the rest of the men surged past. Hettie lingered behind, trying to fathom the handiwork it must have taken to get the rather blunt sculpture all the way through. Finally realising she was not alone she smiled at the terrified officer. "Peaches, why don't you go back down to the ladies? Your pansy footing is distracting enough."

Instantly shamed, the vampire snapped shut his jaw. Hettie started to follow her crew, but his tentative apology caught her attention. "I'm sorry miss. It's just... I'm... a painter."

With a click of her heel, she swivelled to look up at him. "So you know your way around this desiccated turd-circus?"

Shyly, he nodded.

"Grand! You can sort the specialists. Hop hop!" As Hettie wound her way up the rest of the building the mess began to decline. Their perpetrator had clearly started to run low on body parts. They reached the fourth level to find her troops crowding into the gallery annex as stealthily as they could. Hettie sighed and stomped through, pushing and ducking under elbows and knees.

There she was.

Snow's fucking half-demon flutterby; Richard's awol Bonk-buddy; Regus' Hot little 'Harbinger of the Apocalypse': Belinda-bloody-Weaver.

And she hadn't run dry of toys. She still had one corpse, headless, pressed close. She was dancing, spinning and sliding with him in a waltz, bare-foot between the artwork in a drunken daze. Her heels hung from the open jaw of another dead patron by the door. The dead fella she was swirling around with looked better off than she did. She wore a dress that may have been once purple and gold but the corseted satin of her gown was so horribly stained, entirely dark with blood, that the original design was hard to make out except when she swooped around sculptures, kicking the fabric to betray the lining beneath. Her hair was askew. Her make-up was smeared, black rivers of mascara striped her cheeks. Her neck and chin were smeared scarlet with blood, as were her arms, her fingers, they were sticky with it, and had collected stray hairs and fabric from the many dead her like hideous decoupage. "I got you babe, I got you babe, I got you babe, I got you babe, I got you babe..." she trailed off into humming, eyes closed.

The team that Hettie had pulled from Havana, all top of the line in vampire 'diplomats', were stopped in their tracks, watching the slowly sweeping woman. The damned creature was too far gone to have even noticed them. The trill in her tone had not been threatening, nor cautionary, nor teasing. It was simply a symptom of some peculiar insanity. Tuneful, yes, and not a song Hettie had ever heard, or wanted to hear again; but it was, at least, going to work in their advantage.

"Opportunity knocks boys," Hettie decreed. "Take her down."

A few of the team stepped forward stealthily, closing in. The corpse and vampire sauntered away from them in a slow circle. A few more joined them, edging closer, as bravely as they could. Trying not to be noticed. This seemed a successful tactic, until a champagne flute shattered under someone's boot. The sharp crunch of glass echoed around the Annex.

Belinda froze.

Her blood-smeared back bristled. The first few men leapt forward, attempting to nab her before she could take action or defend herself. She made no move to do either. She dropped the corpse to the floor with a thick thump. The attacking vampires drove forward with a war-cry, but were stopped. Suddenly, it seemed, crashing into a great, invisible wall.

Hettie's stepped out of the way, her upper lip twitching with surprise, as all three were propelled backwards in opposite directions. As there were no ghosts to be seen amongst the wreckage Hettie assumed such tricks were of Belinda's making. She searched for her in the crowd, finding her attention was turned focused upon pinning one of the vamps to the far wall.

Terrence's eyebrows were nearly to the atrium ceiling. He bent towards Hettie. "I dare say - a poltergeist possession? Been ages," he said.

"Something like that," Hettie said. She turned her team before they could lose their nerve, "Quick-quick, nimrods. She can't block all of you!"

They act upon the barked order without hesitation. The group charged, breaking into a circle to flank the distracted lunatic. One or two were repelled when she caught wind of their pincer movement, but it clearly wasn't strategic or even concentrated. The circle tightened, only when Belinda finally seemed to run out of steam.

The group seized the opportunity without hesitation, throwing themselves upon her in a violent scrum. Ganging in, amongst the melee of screeches, swearing, hisses and kicks, someone's quick thinking made it easier upon the rest by grasping for a weighty Henri Moore and knocking the woman upside of the head. Suddenly, silently, and to the relief of all involved, Belinda dropped limply into their capture.

"See? Child's play," said Hettie. She caught the attention of Officer Ted with a wolf-whistle, "Get with the program, Skip. You're gonna book her."

"I beg your-fucking pardon?" he said, choking on his impertinence as Hettie caught his groin with the sharp end of her elbow. "I mean, of course, Ma'am."

"Alrighty, Bird brains. You get her shoes."

"Shoes?"

Hettie snarled in response, "Yeah shoes. Footwear? Goes on her darling dear feet. We're taking all the pieces and that includes her shoes. Now - you." The vampire at the receiving end of her steely gaze nodded that he was listening. "I expect to see this piss-party tucked and polished by oh-nine-hundred, got it?"

"But -"

"Don't you go back chatting me, mate! _Obviously_ we can't torch the place so we need it clean. And I mean ship-shape. Call whoever you have to - use petty cash. My crew, we'll deal with the leftovers."

Hettie looked pointedly at the fallen carcass dropped by the blonde. "Use the charity clink's registration list. I want addresses. Telephone numbers. Fuck-bunny secretaries. The works. Can you do that?"

"Yes M'am."

"Great. Fucking fantastic. Okay peeps. Let's get this bitch booked. Keep it quiet. And someone get me a slushy! Two straws."

Like a shot, a clutch of her troops began to clear the mess, a few ran off for supplies, one delivered Hettie's slushie. Eventually two brawny vamps were dispatched to 'deal with' Belinda. They lifted her up on their shoulders, clearly surprised at how light she was, given the chaos she had caused. They strung her between them, dragged her towards the gangway, and then down, limp footed, toes and hem trailing lines through the bloodied footprints. After breathing a heavy sigh of relief, the rest of the team escorted alongside, with Mildred and Terrence eagerly leaving ahead.

They had barely reached ten steps past the smeared and spiked Cardinal when Belinda came too. With a sudden whip of her head upright, alert, she launched into a renewed tasmanian she-devil blur of a second she tore her arm free from the vamp to her left. A painful yelp broke from him as his arm came free from its socket. With a swift nab she swiped back her shoes from the other vampire, breaking his nose flat against his face in the process. The second she had the heels clamped between her blood smeared teeth, the two vampires were flung away like rag dolls with her spare hands.

It all happened so fast that the crowd barely noticed the chaos until Belinda broke into a barefoot run towards Terrence and Mildred, the reanimated and bloodied vampire giggled a maniacal peel as she passed them. Mildred backed aside with a distasteful expression and no lack of haste, but Terrence, playing the hero tried to stop the charge. Maybe would have been successful? He still 'had it' afterall, but his shock of meeting a gaze of pure red fire fury was enough to give Ms. Weaver an in. She bowled into him and tumbled clear. Terrence gasped and lay still. One of Belinda's pumps protruded from the chest of his tweed suit like a Salvador Dali afterthought.

"Terrence? Terrence!" Mildred shrieked.

Terrence's face was lacing into fiery cracks as Belinda dove towards the Cardinal. She was still clutching one of her pumps while plunging her hand into the slime and gore. Hettie looked on with both horror, admiration and more than a little curiosity. What was the mad cow up to?

Terrence exploded into ash.

"You BITCH!" Mildred, in an anguished cry, shouted at Belinda who turned, answered with a lop-sided grin, and flung her remaining shoe through the air. The broken heel perforated Mildred's chest like a silken dart and she fell immediately. The troops around them stared in useless amazement.

"FUCK THIS!" Hettie strode towards Belinda as she left what was remaining of the Cardinal in peace. All three feet ten inches of her stood down Belinda while Hettie calmly sucked on the remaining blue ice of the slushy she had ordered.

It was a stand off.

High Noon at the Guggenheim.

"Do you know how bloody difficult it is to find good help?" said Hettie.

"Help?" Belinda croaked darkly.

Hettie looked at the dusty piles of tweed that has been her associates. "Regrettably they were," Hettie continued, "Oh well, not any more." She lifted the straw from the slushy to her lips. During the insanity Hettie had retrieved the contents of Richard's reed from the inner pocket of her pinafore, the only assistance the bastard had offered, she thought. She had inserted one of Dicky's clever darts into the slushy straw.

"No," said Belinda, as Hettie pursed her lips around the straw and lunged forward to blow. A small dart flew through the air with a pop. "I mean, I need your -"

But the sentence hung there. Belinda-fucking-Weaver slumped to the ground.

* * *

**A/N: This Chapter represents the hard work and effort of Saemay & myself over the last month. We're really proud of it so we hope you like it too. Please leave a review. Welcome to Part 3.**


	30. Open palms

**Chapter 30 - Open palms**

Colette stands in the darkness in stony faced surprise. She isn't sure where exactly the door that Izzy has just vanished through goes to, who the men currently streaming into the room pointing guns at her are, or what is going on in general. What she does know is that this is not good; not good at all.

An incalculable number of torch beams spray eye-wateringly bright light right at her, balanced on the sights of well over a dozen rifles. They dance in the pitch black like deadly fireflies and daze her for a moment. She holds a hand up to shield her eyes and peers through her manicure with a squint to determine who these men might be. She isn't sure what good it will do, to identify these soldiers of fortune bent upon her, but from what she can glimpse, of their silhouettes, the uniforms are black and indistinguishable, providing no help at all in identifying their origins.

Even though she is more than capable of defending herself, and attacking too when needs must, Colette has to concede this situation is a little beyond her. It feels helpless. She isn't used to being helpless. She doesn't like it.

The two dead humans at her feet provide an undeniable clue that she has killed. She should fight, but something in the back of her mind makes her hold up her hands in supplication.

To the light she bares her two open palms. Surrender.

The lights shine into her face and she resists the urge to recoil.

Peering through her eyelashes, as her eyes try to adjust, she notices a slight, grey suited man step towards her calmly. With his own hand held up, in a gesture that halts the mass of troops about him, he slides his way between the torch light and guns like a sinister silverfish. Everything about this man is control. With a small adjustment of his hand, the weaponry trained upon her would, no doubt, end her existence.

He is, nevertheless, only a man.

_Well that's one positive_, Colette thinks to herself. He has his weapons, so too has she.

"Monsieur, thank goodness!" she gasps with relief, knowing full well what the sharp intake of breath will do to her cleavage. "I don't know what happened, it's all such a shock! All the people dead on the streets and..."

She cries out as a sharp burst of pain explodes throughout her temples. The ache drives her to the floor and forces her to close her eyes against the cross that the man has pulled, calmly, from his jacket pocket. He waves it before him.

"Vampire," he remarks blankly, unconcerned

"Please, monsieur," Colette whimpers. She tries to escape from sight of the the thing like a wounded animal until the pain dulls. She opens her eyes as best she can.

The man is crouched in front of her now. He holds the cross behind his back, out of her eye line, for now, with the silent promise that should she give him cause for alarm it will be brandished again. His blue eyes stare into hers, cold, serious and unflinching.

"You're going to tell me what happened here," he says. His tone encourages no argument, he means business.

Colette's eyes water. She can feel her body tremble. This is no act, she wishes it was, but the symptoms of her fear at the cross are as real as they would be for any young vampire. She does exacerbate them, however, stepping up her attempt to appear helpless. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you, monsieur."

The calm face of the angelic featured man does not react to her performance. "After the morning I've had, I implore you, _try me_." He all but growls. He is losing patience.

Colette swallows, worried that the greatest weapon in her arsenal seems to be failing. She stares him down for a moment longer before giving in and looking away, sighing for dramatic effect. Colette doesn't really 'do' giving up.

"Wh-who are you? Wh-what are you doing here..."

She wants to bombard him with questions, stall for time while she can assess his weaknesses, learn how she can survive this mess. He clues into her game quick enough, interrupting her, "My name is Rook, the rest is inconsequential, and I urge you to stop stalling for time, before I become impatient. We wouldn't want that now, would we?" His eyes shift to the hand held behind his back, as if she could forget the cross hidden there. Without need for further instruction from him, she hears dozens of guns click in the darkness too.

"Colette Molyneux," she says, ignoring his threat. She takes a deep, chest heaving breath, and smiles her most charming of smiles. With delicate caution she holds out the back of her hand for him. "I can tell you are a man of impeccable politeness and etiquette. An Apocalypse is no reason to forget manners, is it?"

He looks down at her fingers warily. Eventually, after considering all the possibilities which might ensue, in as much time as it takes to squint his blue eyes, he takes her small hand in his, and shakes it firmly. It is not quite what she had expected; a supplicant kiss was her hope, but from his actions she learns more than he may have suspected. Over the years Colette has been able to learn a lot from the way a man touches her. The stiff control of Rook's fingers betrays his exterior, he is not a man who relishes danger, nor walks into it without thought and calculation. The coldness of his palm shows he does not easily scare, his palm is, if possible, icier than her own. But it is the twitch of his fingers, when she catches his eyes in hers, and the way he pulls away, which proves that all of that control is a facade. Colette, unfortunately for Rook, is an expert at appealing to the hidden sides of the men who visit her door.

"Merci, Monsieur Rook. I would love dearly to tell you what happened here, I am still not sure myself." She changes her position on the floor, partly for comfort, and partly to test a theory. She moves slowly so as not to worry him, but he keeps a close eye on her still, nowhere near trusting her. A wise move. _He isn't stupid_. As she shifts from kneeling to sitting, her skirt rides up slightly and she has to stop herself smiling as his bright eyes flick down briefly. Through process of elimination, she surmises that he must be a leg man, and not homosexual. There is still hope for her yet.

"Try your best to explain, Ms Molyneux. Bear in mind, please, that I am somewhat short of time." He recovers himself quickly, and if she had blinked she would have missed it, but it is too late now. She has her prey in her sights. His tone is already noticeably softer, though he is by no means relaxed. She must still tread carefully.

"As you wish, Monsieur Rook, but it is not pleasant news. I'm afraid the one behind all this is..."

"The devil, yes, I know," Rook interjects, as if showing off.

Now here was a quandary. What use is she to this man once she has provided him what he has asked? She has no allegiances to anyone now; not to Izzy, since she had been left behind; not to Linny, for whatever had become of the woman she had cared for seemed to be long lost; not to this man, nor the Devil, nor even Hal, for he had clearly abandoned his better nature and was no role model for her anymore. She has only allegiance to herself. What did she need from this encounter? She can hardly stop the Apocalypse. She is just one vampire. Protection from the End of Days alone, if that is possible, is what she requires. Could an alliance with this man assist in that? Colette, quickly, surmises that it might. She will tell him enough to show she can be trusted, useful even, and hope that it will lead her to whatever safety will be possible in this new world.

"Indeed. Well, that makes things easier, from what I could understand, there was some sort of plan to stop him, but the supernaturals that were here... he did something to them. They seemed to be in some sort of trance, or perhaps asleep."

"Asleep? I don't suppose there were three of them? A vampire, and ghost and a werewolf?"

"Only a vampire and werewolf. The ghost that I came here with seemed in some distress at this, but I do not understand why exactly. It is all rather complicated, I'm sure _you _would understand it immediately."

"There's a ghost here with us now?" Rook frowns and glances around the room.

She could lie, but there seems no point to it. "Non, she went... somewhere."

"Somewhere?"

"There was a door, a portal to somewhere, I don't know where. They all went through it. I was left behind," she says, trying to seem vulnerable and in need of a hero to take her in his arms now that she has been abandoned here alone.

He doesn't bite.

"Who are _they, _exactly?" Rook snaps.

"The Devil, and..." How does she describe Belinda now, should she? "Another demon, I think. They took the werewolf and vampire you asked about. The ghost who brought me here followed. I'm sorry, I really can't tell you more than that." Colette looks down at the floor, her act forgotten for a moment. Less than a day has passed since her conversation with Izzy through the gramophone. She has experienced more of Purgatory than she ever wanted to, seen two former lovers she hasn't had contact with for decades, suffered the effects of inter-spatial ghost transport, witnessed the Devil and his work, and now has been abandoned by a friend to face the firing squad. It is a lot to take in.

Rook rises in front of her, drawing her attention back to him and his men.

"Well this is quite the mess," he says to himself with pert concern, rubbing his head and frowning. "You don't know where Hatch... the Devil, went? Where this portal might have led to?" She looks up at him helplessly and shakes her head.

"You're quite certain he's gone?"

"As far as I am aware, monsieur. But, pardonnez-moi, why are _you _here?"

"I happen to be quite the authority on supernatural beings," he puffs himself with pride.

"Is that so?" Colette bluffs, putting on her best suggestive smile. She holds out her hand for him again, hoping he will help her up. If he does it will be the first sign that her wiles have some power. Her palm is open to him, a sign of submission, honesty, and trust. While he seems suspicious at first, he steps forward and assists her to her feet. The men with the rifles seem to tense behind him, the muzzles of their guns follow her from the ground. Colette glances at them disapprovingly. "Perhaps you can ask your men to lower their weapons? I can assure you I am no threat to you, or to them, monsieur."

He raises an eyebrow and nods at the two bloodied humans at her feet. "Fed recently, have you?"

She holds up her hands in mock outrage. "It was self-defence I swear it." She frowns, remembering the humans attack. "Besides, they were not themselves. It was as though He was controlling them. Is that what happened to the people outside, monsieur? He has them under his control?"

Rook nods with experience, "In a manner of speaking. He seems to say something to them which convinces them to commit suicide. It appears he came here to transmit his message to a wider audience. We were able to stop him, obviously, but it is imperative that we find him before he tries this, or something else, again. You're quite sure you have no inkling where this portal may have led?"

"Non, monsieur Rook, excuses moi. What will you do now? I will help in any way I can."

Rook turns away. He paces a few steps, clearly trying to work this out for himself. His plans, from what Colette can see, are in tatters.

"We regroup, return to base, call in all the reinforcements we can muster, and search for any scrap of information that might help." He says to himself before turning back to the men with the guns. "Get back to the vans. We're going to the Archive."

Colette wonders what that might be as the men hurry to follow their orders, falling back towards the door and streaming out in an organised precession. Rook watches them go looking, every inch of the man seems to bear the weight of the world on his shoulders. He too must be wondering what such a man as he can do to prevent the inevitable. How do you fight the Devil? Colette feels almost sorry for him. Almost. She hasn't forgiven him for the shenanigans with the cross, yet.

"Monsieur, what about me? What are you going to do with me?"

Rook turns back to her and watches her for a moment. He fixes her with a cold stare.

"You're coming with me."

"Oh, non, monsieur, I think I'll be much better off here. What if they come back?"

"I find that an unlikely prospect given that we've shut down the signal. It's a much more reasonable assumption that He will make his way to another television station."

"Then what do you need me for monsieur?"

"Nothing," he says.

"Nothing?" Colette asks with shock, no man has ever responded to her like that. It cannot be true. "Monsieur, I can be of help..."

"The Archive is reopened, Apocalypse or not you have shown yourself to be a danger to the human race, you are hereby to be detained at the pleasure of Her Majesty. I'm sure we can make you very comfortable, Ms Molyneux. Thank you for your assistance."

"You can't do that!"

"My dear," Mr Rook smiles calmly, holding up his palms in abandon as the troops moved towards her to take her into custody, "I think you will find, I can."

* * *

**A/N: A KatyNewt special here folks with not much change by my good self so all props to Ms Newt please :D**


	31. Entry Tactics

**Chapter 31 - Entry Tactics**

Izzy opens her eyes. Well this isn't so bad, she thinks, it's just another corridor. If there is one thing that Izzy knows best, it's corridors. There is a moment of concern when she wonders if she has inadvertently strolled back into purgatory, before she realises that this place is far older than any other place she had been in before. There is a foul stench to it that makes her ghostly stomach churn. She hangs back in the shadows, willing herself into the darkness, until the evil that she has followed is far enough away that she can remain unnoticed.

"So where to now?" Izzy hears Linny ask the Devil.

The Devil turns. He smiles, "To meet an old friend. He can take care of our guests," he drawls, bitterly, as he glances in the direction of Hal and Tom. It seems, for a moment, as if he looks right at Izzy. She freezes. His eyes glance off the soiled walls as if she is invisible. He continues, "while we get on with more pressing matters, Apocalypse and such."

The Devil holds out his pinstriped arm for Belinda to take. He grins at her, winsomely. It make Izzy's phantom flesh crawl. She can't believe this is happening. Linny, or whatever is left of Izzy's old friend, giggles like a schoolgirl. Giggles! She actually giggles. Belinda Weaver does not giggle. She may laugh, or chortle, she may even occasionally snort, while drunk in a bar discussing filthy acronyms for a secret society to protect a 500 year old idiot vampire that they were all in love with. But giggle, she did not. She was really gone then, her friend? Their friend. The loss feels horribly real, worse given she knows how sickened Linny would be to see how this image of her is acting.

Through shock, and bleary eyes, Izzy watches as the Devil leads Linny away. The minions, still dragging their blissfully comatose captives, follow without needing to be asked. Their sudden movements, though slow, stun Izzy into action. She stays still and silent, biding her time until the Devil and his consort are nothing but specks walking side by side in the distance. When they are: _Here goes nothing, _thinks Izzy, praying that her powers still work here. With one sweep of her arm she flings the zombie people into the wall, biting her lip as a resounding crunch echoes everywhere. The possessed collapse in an untidy heap of limbs on the floor. She looks into the distance for Linny and the Devil. No sign, not yet. She really needs to get out of here. Asap. No more time for dilly dallying.

"Okay boys, wakey-wakey time," she says quietly, crouching down between them. She snaps her fingers in front of their faces. Nothing. She grabs Tom by the shoulders and gives him a shake. No joy. She slaps Hal soundly across the cheek. Nada.

"Come on!" she groans and slumps back against the wall, "what did they do to you?" she sighs.

Steps! They are distant, but approaching from the darkness.

She turns and peers into the cavern beyond. Is that Linny? The Devil? She is not sure which is worse.

Izzy's hand twitches. She tries to think, as quickly as she can, and runs through all the possibilities before resting finally on an idea: if they're sleeping then surely they must be dreaming? To find out what's happened to them all, she could take a peek inside their heads? No harm in trying, right? Well, not much, after all, this is her specialty.

Without thinking, Izzy reaches to place a hand on Hal's cold temple. Suddenly snatching it back as her eyes fall on his blood soaked vest. What if he is still drunk on all that blood? No, she can't deal with feeling that again, not on top of everything else she has to deal with. She can only face one fear at a time. She needs to keep a clear head as best she can. Instead she turns and reaches for Tom, placing a hand on his brow, she closes her eyes.

* * *

"What do you think it means?" Tom asks as I crawl back into the car and search for a bottle of water. He attempts to help by patting me on the shoulder. I turn my head to indicate that, kind as this act is, it is not helping. I sigh. I suddenly feel my age, every one of the years I have lived sit on my chest like stones. I take a deep breath, but it barely seems to enter my lungs.

"Hal, why would…" Tom begins.

"I don't know."

"No need to snap, mate."

"How else would you like me to react?"

Tom shrugs, "I was hoping you could explain it, like?"

I say nothing. I don't think that Tom will like to hear the myriad explanations which I could provide.

"The woman who wrote it there, 'stead of an autograph like. Why would she do that?"

"That 'woman', the soprano, was Lady Veronica Highcastle," I say.

"Yeah," Tom says, none the wiser.

"Belinda's mother," I explain with a sigh.

Tom's eyes widen. He blinks, "You're messin' wiv me, mate?"

I shake my head. "I knew it immediately, so did Alex. She wanted to leave. We were discussing at the theatre."

"Arguin' more like."

"Yes, arguing."

"So..." Tom leads me, aware that my reaction could not have been for nothing. Had I not any suspicions I would have disregarded the scrawl. I remind myself Tom is not stupid, he knows the message is significant. "Is it true, like?"

"I have no reason to suspect it is."

"Yeah, you do."

He is right. I have every reason to suspect, but I do not want to. There are two possibilities, neither is pleasant: it is either a lie, or it is true. If the former then, at best, this is a simple joke, at worst, the supernatural world is reaching its hideous hand out towards us again from the shadows. If the latter, then my worst fears may be realised. Fears I do not yet feel brave enough to face.

"It's supernatural stuff, right? Is Alex in danger?"

"I don't want to contemplate..."

"'Cause she seems dead 'appy, like. It'd be right crap if it weren't real n'all, like an illusion or a dream or whatever. But if there's something goin' on an Alex is in trouble like, we should do summit about it, right?"

Of course I would do something. If she, or Tom, were in danger, it would be the only reason I would sacrifice this life. I turn to look at him, suddenly realising what he has implied. Has he suspected too? All this time I thought it was only me. "Tom?"

"Yeah, mate?"

"Do you understand what you are suggesting?"

"Pretty much," he nods. "Thought it for a while. You tellin' me you didn't wonder if this was all real n'all?" He laughs.

"I didn't want to wonder, but yes, it crossed my mind that everything was a little too good to be true, a little too perfect. Do you know what it might mean?"

"Worst case?"

"Worst case," I say.

"That Hatch ain't dead and we've got to give this up to stop 'im like. 'Course I ain't sure how we do that, but I guess it means I got to not be human no more, an' Alex is still dead, an' you, well..."

"Well, exactly."

"Right then, so what do we do now?"

"We don't have to do anything. I haven't an exit strategy in mind, even though, you should know, part of me has been hankering for my old life. I don't think is part of me you would want to meet again."

"Thought you were alright like?"

"Not quite, it seems."

"But we would do something, wouldn't we?"

"Honestly? In my most selfish moments I have been considering letting Hatch get on with it. If this world is an unreal one, then the point I made to him still stands: as long as we are together I have no qualms with this life. No matter what measure of good or bad I am now, I know as long as we are together I can cope. But now..."

"Now?"

"If Alex isn't..." The words stick in my throat. "If she isn't 'our' Alex, dare I say 'my' Alex, then what is she? Or, worse, who?" I think back to the moment on the beach, the way she held me, the feeling of her lips upon mine. The promise of what might be in our future. That can't be a dream, can it? How can I believe that this is not her. It has to be a trick. I can't believe it. I turn to look at the closed door of the house across the street.

"Whatever the implications, before we take any action, we have to be sure," I say.

"Sure of what?" Tom asks, fully aware of what I mean, clearly as equally concerned as I am about what I am suggesting.

"Of this world. Of Alex."

"But she's her. I don't understand it, mate."

"Who did you see in your vision? Before Hatch died."

"Allison," Tom says sadly, "She were real enough, like."

"Then you get my point. Whatever this woman's message, it has to mean something. At the very least we need to find out what she thinks she knows. If only to protect the life we have here, now, whatever it is."

"It could be a trap or summit, from like your old vampire mates or, I dunno, aliens?"

"Aliens?" I ask, deadpan.

"I'm just tryin' to 'think outside the box' like."

"Stop watching The Apprentice, Tom. This is the real world...or at least, we have to assume it is, until we can prove otherwise"

"Maybe we can quiz her, Alex? Like about something only she would know like?"

"She seems fairly knowledgeable about our history and her own, Tom. No, we need to contact Belinda's mother, go to the heart of the issue. I'll do it," I say, a little anger seeping through.

"Er, I don't think that's a good idea, mate."

"Why not!"

"'Cause the way you're actin' right now I'm worried you'd hurt her, or scare her like," he says with concern, probably as much for me as for her. He is right, the more I consider what is ostensibly a three word threat to all I the happiness I have ever sought in my life, the more I feel the urge to take it out on the cause of that threat. My knuckles have tightened on the wheel, whitening with tension. I try to breath. I count to ten in my head.

"Maybe she meant well, you thought about that?" Tom asks, interrupting any hope I have of calming my anger.

"Of course I have!"

"Yeah, well it don't sound like it. I'll speak to her," he insists.

"Yes, that would be wise," I trill sarcastically, "And perhaps if you can pull your head out of her backside for a second we may learn the truth."

"Oi!"

"No, when we get back I'll find out where she is staying and get to the bottom of this."

"Get to the bottom of what?" says Alex, cracking open the door and sliding into the passenger seat.

We have so busy bickering we had hardly noticed her leave the house and return. We stare at her, open mouthed.

"What," she asks, "Do I have something on my face?"

"Yes, there is something," I joke with a smile.

"Shit, where?" she says in horror, wiping at her mouth frenetically. She points at her face, "Can you get it for me?"

"It was a joke," I say, finding this conversation disarmingly familiar. _Charming, simply, utterly charming. _

"Ha, Ha," drolls Alex, "Human Hal is a funny human."

"So, You came back?" I say, warmly noting her presence at my side.

"Yeah," she grins, "Promised Dad I'd visit next week when the boys are around. He's sent them to mum for the week te get them out of his hair. So..." Alex poses, leaving her eyebrows hanging aloft like speech marks.

"What?" I ask, a little dry of mouth and concerned at what may follow.

"Erm, home, ye' numpty. Chop chop."

* * *

Tom is anxious, Izzy can sense it, but he's very, very happy. It is as if everything is perfect. She screws up her eyes and concentrates, lets the sensations he is experiencing waft over her, but it is no good. No matter how hard she tries, she can't see any deeper. This, she realises, is no ordinary dream.

She is stirred from the pleasant lilt of Tom's emotions by the climbing sound of that a pair of feet approaching.

Her eyes open now she turns to look again. Squinting, she sees a light is coming. It bounces down the corridor. Izzy frowns, raising an arm to shield her eyes from the light and get a better view. That isn't Belinda or the Devil is it? But if it's not them then who? If they're down _this_ corridor then they can't be good news. Panicking slightly, she returns to the task at hand.

If only there was a way to get deeper, to properly be inside his head, to find out where they are. The idea hits her like the punchline to a depressing joke. Possession! It's the only way. She had never tried it before herself but, while roaming the corridors of purgatory, she had spoken to more than enough poltergeists and spirits who had experimented with their powers. She knows the theory pretty well. Then again, being taught how to swim underwater and actually doing it are two different things entirely.

"Okay, sod it, let's do this," she says, hoping to her feet. She stretches out her arms and legs, cracks her knuckles, rolls her shoulders, clicks her neck from side to side and dances the chorus of the Y.M.C.A. "Ready?" she asks herself. The answer is 'no', but the light is closer now, a shape is clearly illuminated by it. As she grabs Tom by both arms and attempts to maneuver him so he is sat upright against the wall, she sees the figure draw into focus.

Tom's head still lolls as she takes a step back.

"It's easy, Isabella, just focus, be committed, take a run up. Simples."

The light is from a lantern, gripped in the delicate fingers of a young man in a grey suit. He has sharp, elfin features, bright blue eyes.

She knows that suit! She knows that man! She's seen him before, while she was watching Hal, surrounded by blood. Of all the people she would be afraid of leaving her old friend with, more than the Devil, more than Linny, it is _this_ man.

What to do!? She knows it isn't wise to leave Hal and Tom lying here unprotected? If she's inside Tom's head then she will be powerless to anything that's going on outside. But the Devil wants them alive, she knows that, or he would have killed them by now. They're safe. Aren't they?

She takes a deep breath, trying to convince herself that she is not about to run headlong straight into a brick wall.

"3...2...1...!"

* * *

**A:N: Thanks to Shoepigeon for her wonderful Izzy interludes here. Great fun working with you as usual!**


	32. Now and Then

******A/N:** This is a big chapter everyone. Enjoy! 

* * *

**Chapter 32 - Now and Then**

_Thump._

_Thu-ump._

_Thump._

Full of glitter with swirls suspended, despite the buoyancy of its bounce, the rubber ball sailed through the air and returned to be caught. Hettie found it mildly amusing, the way the unconscious blonde vampire flinched every time the ball struck, so she kept doing it.

_Thump._

"Mmmmrrgh." The sound, like a balloon deflating, came forth from the dishevelled puddle of person inside the New York Police Department holding cell.

_Thump_.

Watching the lump slowly gaining her aching conscious, Hettie starts to trill, "Half a pound of tuppenny rice, Half a pound of treacle.

That's the way the money goes, Pop! goes the weasel."

_Thud. _Belinda groans again and tries to stand.

"Up and down the City road, In and out the Eagle,

That's the way the money goes, Pop! goes the weasel."

"Hettie?" Belinda drawled, fixing the girl with a dead-eyed stare, "Can you shut the fuck up please, babes? I've a headache from Hell, like, literally."

Hettie giggles, "Every night when I go out, the monkey's on the table.

Take a stick and knock it off, Pop goes the weasel." _Thump, thu-dump._

"Hettie!"

"What? Figured you'd be up for a sing-song. You were in such good voice at the museum. What was that crap you were singing?"

"What? Oh, I don't know. You know how it is. Did I make a mess?"

"A mess?" Hettie guffawed a laugh bigger than her small frame. She smacked the table with the small palm of her hand. "Duckie, you have got to be puttin' me on. A mess? Hah! If by mess you mean glorious nightmare that ruined my party, then yeah."

"Sorry," said Linny, "bad week."

* * *

Not for the first time in her life, not anywhere near it actually, Colette finds herself handcuffed too tightly by a man in a suit. Except, for once, her present situation is nothing to do with fun between two consenting adults. She is a prisoner.

_How dare he_, she thinks, as she writhes her hands into a more comfortable position, the metal biting into her wrists, _pathetic, grey suited, blue eyed little eunuch!_

She is no more enamoured with her surroundings than the state in which she finds herself in them. White tiled walls, fluorescent lighting, cold, dilapidated and with all the hallmarks a Cold War bunker, it has about as much personality as her captor. They say some people look like their dogs, Mr Rook bears an uncanny resemblance to his headquarters, or wherever he has brought her.

If that isn't bad enough, her mode of transport to this hell hole had been the back of a nondescript, void-of-windows transit van. Colette has bruises the like of which she had only achieved before during more _intimate_ activities! After she had been manhandled into said van, hissing and screaming, being tossed around like a rag doll on the journey, she had suffered the indignity of being hooded, dragged through what she assumed had been woodland, and bundled into a cell.

A cell! As though she is some common criminal!

What infuriates her further is the fact that she would have gone willingly, had Rook treated her with some sort of dignity. She finds that, for some reason, she has a feeling that she is better off here with him than she would be on her own. Perhaps it is his surety that he will decide upon a plan of action soon enough, or perhaps it is simply the draw of company rather than facing the Apocalypse alone. The presence of any being, even him, is preferable to being alone at a time like this.

It may be uncomfortable and dull, but there is an air of safety to this place, as though nothing could reach her in here. She knows that is unlikely to be true, but it is a comforting notion at least.

None of this, of course, stops her wondering how long this 'Rook' intends to keep her prisoner, or what he will do to her. From his reaction at the television studio, it will be nothing remotely pleasant for either of them. Still, she figures, his grey-suited minions might be another story entirely.

She is sure that the sack, which had been unceremoniously plucked from her head when they shoved her into the cell, has left her with a terrible case of hat-hair. She can see that her clothing is now spattered with flecks of mud and blood, and that her shoes are scuffed and ruined. It hurts more than her battered pride and bruises; she had loved these shoes. Nevertheless, Colette knows full well that she is still more than capable of performing a seduction, or as much of one as is necessary. All she wants is information, and the _boy_ Rook had left to guard her was no more than twenty-five, not long past his first shave. Besides, it gives her something to do while she waits for Rook to return.

She sashays over to where the young man is stood, opposite the bars of the cell. His arms folded, face stern, he is trying very hard not to look at her. She sways her hips as she walks and his eyes widen a touch, wandering pleasingly. Clearly, as she rests her bosom against the bars, making the creamy skin swell against the metal, he doesn't know where to look. She has always been curious why it is that men seem obsessed by poles, but obsessed they are; she uses it to her advantage where needs must. She hooks a knee through the bars to 'absentmindedly' rub against the post.

"Bonjour, monsieur." she pouts, "May I have un verre d'eau? Oh, please excuse me sir, my English is not so good. Some water, please?"

Colette smiles apologetically, laying her accent on thickly, for effect. The young man blinks. He moves over to a large enamelled sink, takes a paper cup from the side and fills it.

_Not even glass or china, how cheap_, Colette muses. She turns, slightly, and wriggles her restrained hands at him when he offers the cup. He looks down at them with panic, but she smiles reassuringly, trying to appear as innocent as possible. He mulls over the conundrum for a few seconds, before quickly fumbling a set of keys from his pocket and shakily unfastening the cuffs through the bars. Colette stretches out her wrists in triumph, working them in small circles. She gratefully accepts the cup he still holds.

"Merci, monsieur," she says, her voice slightly higher than usual.

She takes her chance to edge her leg further through the bars to stroke the back of his knee softly. He seems startled, his expression conflicted and pleading while she smirks up at him and bites her bottom lip suggestively.

Behind him, over his shoulder, she sees a door open. In walks Rook. When he sees his young lackey in such a compromising position his expressionless mask is, only briefly, interrupted by a flash of irritated disapproval. He marches up to the startled boy and slaps the back of his head swiftly. The boy stumbles away from Colette's attentions with a jolt and stares at his boss.

"Mr. Rook, I... uh... I can explain."

"I'm sure. We'll discuss this later, perhaps when the world isn't ending," Rook chastises through his teeth with a glare.

Colette smirks again, but gives the boy a sympathetic smile. Poor thing never stood a chance. He scuttles out, his cheeks glowing bright red.

"Mr. Rook, how nice to see you again. And alone as well. Could it be that your cold heart wants some warming at last?"

"Madam Molyneux," Rook smiles like a character from Enid Blyton. His eyes sparkle with well-intentioned charm, "perhaps we got off on the wrong foot."

"We did."

"Terrible thing, but we seem to rather be drawing a blank on the Devil's present whereabouts. No such hope that he has snuck back into anonymity I am afraid. It has come to my attention that perhaps you might be able to help shed some light on what happened before we arrived at the studio. Any _shred _of information could be crucial," he speaks slowly, and enunciates all the fricatives by gesticulating precisely with his fingers.

"You want my help now," she folds her arms over her breasts, openly smug that he has come crawling to her for help.

"I want your assistance," Rook agrees with a delicate nod of his head. He continues without blinking, "You may give it willingly or I can force it out of you, the choice is entirely yours, Madame." He pauses. His silence is loaded with malice and promise.

Colette doesn't falter. She is privately worried for her safety and weighing up her options, but he clearly has no idea of her association with Hal, if he thinks he is enough to frighten her into submission. She has danced with more terrifying men.

"What is it you wish to know?"

* * *

"Bad week!?" Hettie drawled with sarcasm, "You've dissected half of the Big Apple's glitterarti, Cotton-tits. You're lucky you're not kitty litter, the mood I'm in."

Belinda's face fell into sadness. She looked at her dress, frayed into bloody tatters. She pinched at the scuffed and hardened coppery dust upon it.

"How many?"

"You tell me? You're the one who walked into that party. I've got the boys counting the packed up pieces and looking for a guest list but, well, that could take forever."

"I don't remember."

Hettie wasn't having it, "Don't shit me about, love, I know you were more with it than you're fessing up to."

"Five years dry, takes it out of one," Belinda sighed.

"Still not buying it, try another why don't you, I ain't going nowhere soon."

_Thump, thu-Dump._

"Bad break up. You know how it is."

_Thump, thu-Dump._

"I heard about that, you and the whore, right?"

"She's not - !" Belinda's temper rose like a wave. Her eyes flashed sharply red before she once again found a way to control herself. "Colette is better off without me, if you must know. It's safer."

_Thump, thu-Dump._

_Thump, thu-Dump._

"Sorry, time of the month, you know," Linny sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Makes you a bit antsy. Not that you would know anything about that, now." Grabbing hold of the hard little shelf that sufficed as a bed. She manages herself upright, holding her head in her hands and changes the subject, "When is Snow getting here then? I presume that's the only reason I'm still here?"

"You're here because I'm the one who's curious. I couldn't give a monkey's turd what Snow wants. Having said that, this mess is going to take more years, money, energy and bother than I am yet prepared to bother putting in, to clean up. I'm rather peachy keen to get him 'ere sharpish to tear you a whole gamut of funholes for you to keep lying out of, Sweeny-Tina."

"I'll take my chances, Het."

Hettie ignored her. They both knew Snow won't have her killed, which rather limited the threats that Hettie could make. Having seen what her fellow Old Ones had unleashed on the woman when she had first turned up too, Hettie was well aware that there was little the threat of torture will even extort.

"I could even get Eddie here, I know how you and Old Wyndham got on. Or Richard, I'm sure he'll be really pleased to see you after you tore out his bastard little heart."

"Hettie, you're going to have to do a lot worse than that. Kill me or let me go, will you? I've got a busy schedule. I've not even seen the Statue of Liberty yet, and then there's Times' Square, and Fifth Avenue is in serious trouble when I -"

"How about Hal?" Hettie interrupted flatly.

That shut the arrogant vampire up.

"Hal?" Linny said, failing to successfully fein any disinterest.

"You think we don't know where he is? After all that trouble you all went to get him to Southend. You stay here, keep pretending that this is all just a terrible accident, the slip of a dry vampire, the extravagance of demonic influence, Hell, you could even imply you were under some sort of spell. I don't give a crap. But you and I both know you'll be lying. You knew exactly what you were doing last night, Miss Radio-rental. And we both know what will make you spill. So, while we play this little game, I'll send one of the boys to get my old mucker Harry here and we'll see how long he stays clean this time, shall we?"

"All right, fine. You're curious about what, exactly, Het?" Belinda grins through the blood and smears that still mark her face from the night before like war-paint.

After reaching into the pouch of her dress, Hettie removed an old iron key from the folds of fabric. She placed it on the table beside her with care.

"Where did you...that's mine!" Belinda jumped from the bed when she saw the little key. She rushed to the cell bars and eyed the antique with desperation.

"Erm, well no. Technically it belongs to His Eminence Cardinal Kebab-meat, but since you went to _such _trouble to rent it from his guts, before we lanced you out of that fun-fest, I figured it was best if I looked after it for you till you had your wits again."

Belinda suddenly smiled, "Oh, Henrietta. You wouldn't believe me even if I told you."

"Bitch, try me."

Belinda sighs, "Fine, hot water, soap and a decent frock and I'll tell you what I can. Cross my heart."

Hettie nodded, but she still had a horrible feeling that she was being played.

* * *

"Let's start at the beginning shall we. How did you come to be at the studio?"

"With my friend, the ghost I told you about."

"Yes, but _why_? We've been watching that Trinity for a while now and have never seen you. How do you know them? What were you doing in that studio?"

Colette says nothing for a minute, weighing up her options. Just how much should she tell him? She is sure he isn't bluffing about forcing her to divulge what she knows should he feel she isn't giving him what he wants.

"To protect Hal. There are three of us, a small group of supernaturals who took it upon ourselves to look out for him in any way we could. We all knew him in the past, a long time ago. Before you were even born, Monsieur." A gentle reminder of her age over his can't hurt in this battle of wills.

"Why would you need to protect him?"

"From himself. He has a tendency to let his worser natures get out of hand, every now and then," she is underplaying it intentionally.

"So you expect me to believe that you 'just so happened' to be there because he has started to drink blood again? What a striking coincidence," Rook exclaims sarcastically. "Who were your accomplices?"

Colette laughs, "Accomplices? You make it sound as though we were doing something wrong, Monsieur," she answers with obvious attempt to insult him. "It doesn't matter does it? Il n'est pas pertinent."

"Au contraire. _Tout _est intéressant. Qui vous a aidé dans cette folie, Madam?"

Her test of his French has failed.

"Myself, the ghost I came with, she was Isabella, and one other." She tries not to pause or lose her cool, but knows that her voice falters. "Her name was Belinda Weaver, she was a vampire, like myself. We came together to steer Hal towards sobriety, and were successful, until now."

"Belinda _Weaver_?" Rook asks with a frown. She can tell by the way his eyes widen, and his back straightens, that she has said something of sudden interest. Why should she be surprised that it would be her mysterious ex.

"Yes," Colette answers, confused as to why he should respond to the name.

"How do you know her?"

"Does it matter?"

"Answer the question."

"We were lovers," she reposts, bluntly. He is silent.

She searches his expression for a hint of approval but, disappointingly, finds nothing. Is this man completely immune to her suggestiveness? Colette pouts at the idea, and sighs when she gets no rise from him, before continuing, "We simply assisted Hal escape the company he kept so that he might have a chance at escaping the bloodlust. I do not see why the matters now, Mr Rook, it was a long time ago." She turns away, her back to him through the bars to signify her boredom.

"Colette. Hal Yorke _had _been clean for more than fifty years." He sighs, as if recalling every one of those years personally in the folds of flesh on his forehead.

"Yes, and what of it? It didn't matter how long it lasted: a day, a week, a millennia, the point was we helped," she snaps, impatiently without turning back to him. She needn't be reminded that Hal had so recently slipped into his old habits.

Rook is silent for some time before speaking again. She can hear him thinking as loudly as she can hear the pipes about her stretch and contract.

"This was not recently then?" he asks, eventually, every syllable carries a mountain of questions, valleys of concern wend their way through the silence he leaves between each word.

"We parted ways in 1955 monsieur. As I said, it was a long time ago."

"And _that _was when you last saw Ms Weaver?" Rook asks.

"Not long after," she answers bitterly.

When he remains silent, she turns to him again, puzzled at why this particular piece of information seems to have surprised him the most. He is pacing. He doesn't believe her.

"You're lying."

"Why would I, Monsieur?"

"You simply can not have known Belinda Weaver in 1955," he says as if this is fact.

"And why is that!" Colette demands, her frustration beginning to boil over.

"Because," Rook explains with the conviction of a zealot, "Belinda Weaver was only recruited last year."

* * *

"Okay, Toots, Spill it," Hettie drawled in mock Americana bursting into the cells again to see Belinda had finally dressed. The vampires not too afraid to enter had been dispatched to bring her what she had asked for. The clothes were nothing particularly attractive, which had led to many complaints, none of which were listened to. The water was cold, the soap Police-issue. It would have to do.

Belinda, stood in the corner of the cell, leaning against the wall in an oversized officer's shirt hanging down to her thighs. She held the trousers, folded, against her body. She stretched out her naked toes and poked at the tile.

"Oi!" Hettie squawked, hitting the bars with a clunk.

"I haven't been born yet, you know?" Belinda said.

"You lost the plot again? Want me to get Richard's little prick out again?" She lays on the innuendo, puts her hand to her lips in dry amusement, "Oops, sorry, bad choice of words."

"No, no," Belinda said, "I'm trying to explain. That's what you want, isn't it?"

"Try the short version. What were you doing in the museum?"

"I had to leave, it wasn't safe, not for the people I cared for, not for anyone. There's something in me, has been for a long time ago and I can feel it getting stronger. I knew this man once. I killed him, swallowed him down, every last drop. There was something different about him, something more sinister than I could have imagined. Whatever was in him is in me now."

"Save the dramatics, you're possessed. Snow told us all about it over dinner mints. What were you doing in the museum?" she repeated.

"There's something I've seen. Before I came here I was in purgatory. I couldn't die. I wasn't alive, nor dead, neither vampire, nor ghost. I changed. Perhaps if I hadn't been in purgatory this demon wouldn't have taken hold, made me what I am. It was timeless there. I had dreams, nightmares. Over and over again, in my head. He will rise."

"What the hell are you going on about? Get on with it or I'll go watch cartoons and leave you to rot."

"The Devil, Hettie. The Apocalypse. It's coming."

This wasn't prophecy, not some skin fragment of dusty book to be interpreted, Hettie thought. This was honesty. It was the first time Hettie had seen Belinda truly afraid. It was a little unnerving, more so than the insanity she had seen the night before. "When?" Hettie asked with all seriousness, dropping her bravado and wit in favour of straight to the bone concern.

"Soon enough," she said, "but if you help me, there's a chance that we can stop it!"

* * *

Last year! Rook is joking, surely? Colette shakes her head and smiles, but something feels wrong. She wants to believe it is just a simple case of mistaken identity, but with everything else she has learnt about Linny, in the last day or so, she doesn't know what to think anymore.

"Non. You must be mistaken. Vous avez tort, monsieur."

"That would be quite the coincidence wouldn't it." Rook is pleased with himself, she can see that. Her face must be betraying her concern. That isn't like her, to forget about her act, but what if he is right? No, he can't be.

"How can you know anyway? Even if we _do _mean the same person, whatever information you have heard, it is wrong. You are wrong!" Her voice rises a notch in her irritation. _Calm Colette_, she thinks,_ this won't help your case_. The confident gleam in Rook's eye only serves to inflame her further.

"You'd be surprised how much I know." He smirks at her and raises a finger, "Perhaps I may demonstrate." He strides away and back through the door into a red lit corridor. Even his walk seems, somehow, smug.

Colette backs away from the bars. She leans against the tiled wall of the cell, trying to become calm. She chastises herself for letting herself slip? There is no conceivable way that Rook can be right. Linny was with her in 1955, already a vampire and... whatever else she was. But she was there, and already recruited.

How could Rook think her vampirism was recent?

Alone. Colette lets out a small chuckle. He is wrong. He must be wrong. She has seen a lot of things in her life, she has seen a lot of things she thought impossible in just the last day, but as far as she is aware, no one has made time travel possible.

Colette doesn't know how long Rook has been gone when he bursts back through the door, a black box folder tucked under one arm and a superior look on his face. She takes a breath and forces a smile onto her face, determined not to let him see she is worried. No man has ever got the better of her, not even Hal. This little imbécile is nothing special.

He pulls a piece of paper from the file, throwing the box casually onto the desk. "Is this your friend?"

Colette's stomach lurches.

She has to hold on to the wall for support as she sees the picture he has thrust up against the bars.

A glossy, A4 print of a smiling Linny looks back at her, almost mockingly carefree, her blue eyes full of audacious joy. The picture is startlingly modern, obviously not very old. Not pre 1950's, certainly.

Shakily, she steps forward. She snatches the picture from his grasp. Her mind is fumbling for any explanation that isn't as terrible as those whirling around her head now.

"Non," she whispers, "C'est ne pas possible!" She shakes her head in rejection of his evidence.

"You still think I'm wrong?"

Colette pointedly, says nothing.

Rook, acting as if he has uncovered some spectacular rouse his interrogatee has been fashioning, turns away, all but runs to the desk, grabs the folder and shuffles through the documents within with determination.

"Newspaper clippings detailing her disappearance; profiles on her parents; her family tree; reports detailing her fate after she was recruited; the clean up operation that occurred because of it. We even have school reports for Christ's sake!"

He posts document after document through the bars at her. There are too many for her to read or even get a close look at. It is too much to take in even if she could. She fumbles through the papers at random.

Among the waterfall of evidence Colette spots another picture of Linny, this time younger, but still unmistakably her, in the arms of a smiling woman, well dressed and the spitting image of her former lover. She picks it up. This is her mother, Colette concludes from the notes on the back. Then a newspaper report detailing the disappearance of a socialite and much loved daughter, another clipping stating that Miss Weaver had been found dead, her mother left devastated. Then a picture of the burnt out shell of a building, the word "Hull" printed at the bottom. Then another picture, a thin, scrap of a man in a suit, 'Stuart' the scrawl on the reverse reports.

None of it means a thing to Colette, but it _is _proof.

Her head spins.

Her vision swimming.

How can Belinda have been both here and with her half a century before? It doesn't make any sense. Her stomach suddenly feels painfully empty, stress driving her hunger to the surface. Rook shakes her from her thoughts. She doesn't hear him at first, and has to ask him to repeat himself.

"So, now that we've disproved that little lie. Would you like to tell me what your association with Hal really is?" he asks again, patiently.

"We were business partners, of sorts. Lovers, friends."

"Another lover? You were busy."

She ignores his jibe, kneeling unsteadily to look again at the spread of documents on the floor.

"And met her through him?"

"No, not really. I don't think she actually met him in person, she just knew of him, as did every vampire in London. In the country," she replies with distraction She no longer cares if he believes her or not.

His questioning sets her stomach churning again, and she wonders if there can still be more to this.

"Madame Molyneux, I suspect this too is going to come as quite a shock. Hal Yorke _made _Belinda."

* * *

"Help you? I don't even _trust_ you. I don't know anything about you. I know the maker of almost every vampire on this planet, it's a hobby of mine. Like sticker collecting, but less gluey. I don't even know where you came from."

"You claim to know everything," Belinda snapped. "I can't tell you who made me, I just...I can't. Please, Hettie, I need your help. I can't do this alone. I need you. I need someone who can -"

"Tell me what happened at the museum."

Linny sighed and almost growled with anger.

Hettie sighed, "Apolcolypse-shmocalypse, you think I give a crap about that. I'll look forward to it, sugar-fanny. I'll roll up my dolly-socks and toast my tootsies on the burning fires and pandemonium. But we might not even have the pleasure of the theatre of it. I deal in the here and now, darling, and _here_ and _now_ you lost your blob in the biggest city on earth. No one does that, not even Harry-shitting-Yorke was ever that stupid! How do I know you won't go do it again? I won't be around to enjoy any bastard Armageddon by the time the fucking civil war has calmed down."

"I can control it."

"You couldn't control a mute, lobotomised gimp! I'm done with this shit," Hettie stood to leave.

"I'm not a risk!" Belinda ran to the bars and held to them tightly, "Not all the time. Please! It's just difficult right _now_. I could control myself, for a while, until...until last month. I can do again, I just need help. I can feel myself slipping away. I need a friend, a mentor, someone to...shit, I had someone, once, they promised to look after me, to help." To Hettie's astonishment the woman began to cry, this bastion of cool. She melted to the tile, all the facade she had been carrying fell away. "I can't be with anyone else. I've tried, I've loved, really...but I can't stay, it feels like a betrayal to that promise. I can't be with anyone, not even the dead, I know what I am can cause so much pain...I've had to leave everyone who has even barely cared for me. I want... I need... I just want my mum. Can you understand that! Tell me in all your years, you haven't forgotten what that feels like, have you!?"

Hettie stopped.

"What you need is someone you don't give a shit about. And vice versa."

Belinda wiped her cheeks on her sleeve and sniffed as Hettie returned with a skip.

"So what happened last month? When you dumped your little girlfriend?"

"It wasn't like that. I had a dream, one night, different to anything else I had ever had. I knew I had to come here, I knew what I needed. When I woke up I was in the forest near where we lived."

Belinda pulled the trousers she held against her to the side and lifted up the shirt to show a great scar on her thigh. Hettie knows exactly what it was, straight away. After four hundred years there was little she had seen in three centuries that had surprised her more than those three deep scores in Belinda Weaver's alabaster thigh.

What she could hardly fathom was how Belinda had survived, vampires did not survive being scratched by werewolves.

"I went looking for it," she says. "The wolf."

* * *

Colette stares blankly at the picture again. She wants to deny it, to tell him he is wrong again, but this last detail clicks into place with sickening perfection. She isn't sure how Linny has seemingly traveled through time to be in both eras, to be recruited recently, yet be a vampire when she knew her before, but one thing has become startlingly clear through the haze of the rest of it.

Colette has been used all her life. It is a fact that she came to terms with a very long time ago, before she even had her first awful experience of the lust of men at fourteen. He mother had been subject to it since before her birth, she had grown up with prostitution the norm. It never mattered that her body belonged to others when her time was bought, because she learnt very quickly that she was the real winner in the deal. Money for a short while of discomfort? It seemed an easy bargain.

It was only when she became a vampire that she realised there was much more to it than that. In the flea pit she had called home as a girl, men took what they wanted, coin was exchanged, or violence regularly, and the struggle to survive went on. Suddenly the world was her oyster. She grew to expand her talents, to learn men and their desires, and the rewards had been great. She had ended up loving what she did, letting the client think he was in control when really it was she who held the power. Colette had never felt used herself, not until now.

The realisation Colette had come to: Belinda had used her to get to Hal.

It was as clear as day now.

Linny had come into her life, convinced her to help him at great personal risk to herself, made her open up in a way she never had before, talked her into finally letting herself love someone. She had celebrated their victory with gusto and stayed just long enough not to rouse suspicion before leaving, never to return back to her life. It had hurt enough to know that she had chosen to leave in the first place, but now Colette knows the truth of it, she has never felt pain like it.

The part of her life she thought most honest was, in fact, a lie.

"You know, I had simply thought to prove that you were being evasive, but I see now that this has come as a shock. You had no idea of any of this did you?"

Colette shakes her head, still too transfixed by the photograph to pay him much attention.

"It seems your 'friends' have been keeping things from you," Rook says with confidence, before suggesting, "Perhaps your allegiances, especially now, should rest elsewhere?"

His words coax her back to the present, away from thoughts of the past and of betrayal. She must concentrate on the matter at hand, however hard that is. This man could be dangerous, or he could be a help. She isn't sure how much she cares at the moment, but survival is an instinct deeply ingrained in her.

"You called it an Archive before, is that what you do? You spy on us?" she asks warily.

"I wouldn't call it spying necessarily. We collect information on your species so we might better understand your habits, your behaviour."

"So that you can fight us?"

"I haven't killed you, yet."

"But you will, when I am no longer of use," Colette mutters, allowing her defeatism to show for once.

"We don't tend to interfere, not usually anyway. Desperate times, however, call for desperate measures though. Our hand has been forced in this case."

"If you don't interfere _usually_, then what do you do? What's the point of you?"

"Now, now, Colette. _We _didn't betray you. Given vampire numbers, it would be foolish of us to think we could wipe you out. That is not our remit. We clear up the messes that you and other supernatural species create, so that your world might remain hidden from human eyes. Have you ever wondered how you have remained hidden for so long?"

She supposes it makes sense. She has usually been quite careful with her victims or, failing that, protected by Hal in times of excess. He had an operation that ran like clockwork to dispose of bodies and witnesses when he was in charge. Others are not so cautious. It is strangely comforting to know that someone else had been there to pick up the pieces, while also undoubtedly being extremely unsettling. She has always believed it was her kind who lurked in the shadows looking in on humanity. It appears that the watchers have in fact been being watched themselves.

Her eyes find his. Bitterness is clear in her tone, but Colette is unconcerned whether or not her insolence will be tolerated. What can he possibly do to her that will hurt more than Belinda's betrayal? He has stated her usefulness already. There is no point in putting on false politeness anymore.

"If you have been watching so closely. If you know so much about... her, why do you need me to tell you anything?I doubt I can tell you more than you already know about her plans. "

Rook hesitates. Clearly debating within himself how he should now proceed. He stands, adjusts his tie.

"And what plan would that be exactly?" He says, for the first time revealing he does not hold all the cards.

A little part of Colette suddenly revels in the fact that she knows something he doesn't. On a day that the opposite has been true more often than not, this victory is strangely important, however small it may be.

"Why should I tell you?"

The power has seemingly shifted, Rook is behaving like a slightly excitable kitten.

"Firstly," he hums with enthusiasm, punching the air delicately ever few words, "it may make a difference in the fight we find ourselves in against the end of the world as we know it. A bad thing for all of us, I think you'll surely agree. Secondly," he then darkens, dropping his jolly-hockeysticks smile, "if you do not tell me, I will use whatever methods I see fit to pull it from that pretty head of yours and, I can assure you, I would revel in it after the day I've..."

"Calm down chérie," Colette interrupts, when his cheeks begin to turn pink with frustration. "You have a vein the size of a drinking straw about to pop right out of your forehead. It's making me hungry."

He raises an eyebrow but calms down nonetheless, stepping back from the bars and folding his arms.

"I'm listening."

Colette repeats what she can from what she had learned from Izzy. It is not much, "Belinda had a plan, I am told, to triumph against the apocalypse. I do not know more than this, as you can tell, there is a lot that she never burdened me with in terms of truth, it would seem. I wish, for my own sake that I knew more, but It is unlikely we will ever find out what it was now."

* * *

The Pilot comes over the tanoy and announces their imminent arrival at Cardiff Airport. Hettie groans and lights another cigarette.

"So, did you help her?" Richard asks, having spent several hours listening to Hettie regale the story of her interrogation of his old flame.

Hettie draws deeply on her cigarette with her spacious tweenager lungs.

"What do you think, bumface?" she coughs. Hours of flight time and reminiscence has dulled her vocabulary as well as her patience.

He looks out at the grey skies and wet tarmac beneath them, surprised to find the black littered with fallen corpses.

"What did she need your help with, Hettie?"

Hettie shrugs, "A whole heep'o crazy. You'll see when we find Grace."

Richard turns to her in a flash, "Grace? You mean a vampire, from Barry?"

"Yeah, Belinda turned her_."_

"Belinda turned Grace! Grace Williams, of Stoker Imports & Exports?"

"Yeah, why?" Hettie asked with concern.

"She's only my biggest bloody client!" Richard laughs.

* * *

"Any plan, whatever it might have been, is better than whatever we have at the moment," Rook explains.

"Have you not been _listening_, Monsieur? I do not know what it was, and there is no way for us to find out. It is pointless." Colette sighs again, scooting back to rest against the tiles. She feels exhausted.

"Madame!" Rook pounds his fist against his thigh with the bravado of a WW2 politician, "I'm _not _prepared to give up. It might have escaped your notice, but we are standing on the brink of oblivion! There must be _something_ we can do?"

Colette scoffs. His arrogance is really quite astonishing. Any other time she might find it endearing that he still has hope they can win, his determination, his strength in a fight against Satan himself would be quite charming. Currently though, he is just another man believing he is in control, and Colette couldn't really care less.

She has no one, not even the lover she still took comfort in remembering, the one person she had truly been herself with. Even the reason for her decades long show of mercy on human life has scuttled back to the shadows. She wonders vaguely if perhaps if they get out of this mess somehow, Hal will accept her back into the fold, if there might be a place for her somewhere. It's not as though she has anything left anyway. Her stomach aches with the need for blood, and if it weren't for his heartbeat thundering in her ears or his scent, cheap cologne, sweat and the fresh fabric of his newly tailored suit, she might have forgotten Rook was there at all. He seemed so inconsequential now, just another man. Just another human.

There is a knock at the door, which draws both their attention.

Rook turns to look with anxiousness.

Her eyes follow him dully as he goes to the door again, poking his head through and mumbling to someone in the corridor. Whoever had summoned his attention scuttles off at pace, their footsteps reverberating off the bare brick walls. Rook steps back into the room but says nothing, waiting and watching her it would seem.

"What was that?"

Rook lifts a finger, as if to indicate she should wait. "An associate is joining us. Many hands make light work!"

Colette's eyes wander back to the photograph of Belinda again. How can she have allowed herself to be played so easily, and for so long? She knows body language. She knows people! Belinda had always seemed so sincere. Something feels off. She puts it down to hurt pride and an overwhelming desire to be proven wrong.

She looks up again when the door opens. The young man that she had attempted to seduce steps inside, shamefacedly, followed by a woman.

Everything about her oozes power, self-confidence, superiority, even down to her well cut suit and gleaming court shoes. Her dark hair sits on top of her head in a perfect, tidy bun, her make up perfect and unblemished, despite the obvious stress felt by all in this bunker, even Mr Rook. But it is something else that catches Colette's attention as she sniffs the air in surprise, picking up an unmistakable scent. The woman is a vampire.

"Colette," Rook greets the newcomer courteously, "allow me to introduce you to Grace."

* * *

As Richard tries to control his laughter the wheels of Hettie's plan touch down and pull to a halt.

She stubs her cigarette out on the arm of her chair and starts to hum,

"I've no time to plead and pine, I've no time to wheedle,  
Kiss me quick, and then I'm gone, Pop! Goes the weasel!"

* * *

**A/N: All filth courtesy of the Filth Yoda herself, Ms KatyNewt, with some ball bouncing courtesy of Ms Saemey too. Great working with you as usual ladies.**


	33. Exit Strategies

**Chapter 33 - Exit Strategies**

Alex is sleeping. It's a distracting vision at my side. I try not to look at her as the countryside passes us by. She is curled up in an awkward position against the glass. Her arms are folded unnaturally to allow purchase on the armrest. Occasionally she slips, swears and re-positions herself. A few moments ago she began to snore lightly, tunefully. Almost moaning. It makes me smile and draws my eyes from the road when she does that. I notice the light breeze, from the broken window trim, causes the very corner of her fringe to dance against her forehead. Her long eyelashes twitch. Is she dreaming? She looks so peaceful. How can I doubt this is real?

"I don't feel too good, mate," Tom says, breaking the silence.

"Car sick again?" I ask him.

"Dunno. Can we stop in a bit maybe?"

"No, I want to get back. And every time we stop you end up drinking three gallons of liquid. Look at the horizon why don't you?" He does nothing. "Open a window?"

He hums absently, Y.M.C.A if I am not mistaken.

"Please," I sigh, "Anything but the Village People."

"So, I've been thinkin'," Tom yawns, "'Bout what we were talkin' about before."

I fix Tom with a steely stare in the rear-view mirror. "Not the time, Tom."

"Yeah, well, I think I'm gunna to call Allison like."

"Allison!" I say with quiet surprise.

"I know, right," he lowers his voice to a whisper. "She's dead clever. An' it means we don't need to get involved like, if it's proper supernatural stuff. She'll be able to get to the bottom of it."

"Bottom of what, Hardy boys?" Alex wakes.

"Nothing. Nice sleep?" I smile, trying to immediately change the subject, as subtly as I am able.

"You know sometimes spines are totally over-rated. We there yet?"

"Just over the bridge. Lunch?"

She smiles, widely. "You, Sir, know the way straight to my heart. KFC?" She rubs her hands together.

I sigh, "I was thinking of the Park Hotel. We are, it seems, still dressed for the occasion. Wave something to celebrate, after all."

"We do?" Tom asks with surprise as he searches the back seat for the bow tie he had been wearing the night before.

"Alex is going to stay, aren't you?" I say knowingly.

She pauses, "Aye, 'spose, as long as you both learn te put the bog seat down, and no more show-tunes, Liberace." She eyes me with a smile and narrowed lashes.

"Liberace was a pianist," I explain.

"You call it whatever you want to, mate."

"Fine, no more 'show-tunes'," I promise.

"Two guys, One girl," Tom argues. Alex fixes him with the same stare. "Fine. Loo seat down," he concedes.

Alex and Tom continue to bicker about the house rules as we traverse the final miles. Annie's original set is whipped out from his back pocket, where he keeps it, like a religious talisman; the amendments I once made are disputed, especially given that many were written for our pre-human selves; Leo's are redacted (except the kiora one, which we have discovered remains relevant); and Tom and Alex debate the newer ones as I watch the road.

Things are too perfect. The fact that Alex came back so quickly has sent off alarm bells in me. I recall her face the first time we left her family behind. That was not a face of someone who would have left if they had been alive. No matter how much we have been through, or how close we have become, If this were real we would be dancing and negotiating a fine line between us for months: the line between the man I was, the man who let her down, the monster I can be, and the humanity I am learning to wear like a strangely tight coat. As much as I wish I were that charming, I know in reality I am not. The Alex I knew, loved, would never condescend to remain with me over her family. At least not this easily.

Still, I have to be sure. How do I know that the way I feel isn't just traditional human, self doubt?

I have to come at this logically.

It is after we pass Newport that I decide to try an experiment. We come up to a set of traffic lights. They are red. I tell myself, as we approach, that they are going to stay red. But I do not slow down, Alex and Tom are too engrossed in their debate to notice as I slide my foot down onto the accelerator. Fighting my better nature, in favour of the reckless, I remove my foot from the break. It's going to stay red, I say to myself. It's going to stay red. There is no traffic in front of me, but enough cars behind that if I have to emergency stop, we are going to upset a lot of people and probably ruin my poor, old car. But I don't need to do stop, do I? As we are close enough that only an emergency stop will save us I resolve in myself that it won't stay red but will actually turn...

_Green!_

It changes, on cue, almost as soon as we reach the line.

Of course that could be a fluke.

As we come to the next set of lights I do the same. _Red. Red. Red. Red_.

Hovering my foot over the..._Green_.

We pass by like we are flying. But two isn't proof though, is it? We need a third. _Red. Red. Red_. 50mph. _Red_. 60mph. _Red_...

_Green_!

Perhaps a fourth?

Green!

And that is how it plays out for the rest of the journey home. Not one light stays red once I will it to go green. It makes me feel powerful; it is a feeling I have, admittedly, missed. It takes Alex to point out that I'm speeding. Perhaps I got a little carried away. Then the reality of it hits me. Do I want to prove my suspicions right? The truth is that I have everything I want. But can I really enjoy it if I know it is a lie? 'You should have put us together,' I told the devil. But what power would that give him? The three of us together are a powerful force, especially without some form of control, what would he be able to do if we came to realise his trick, with enough time and freedom to formulate a scheme against him? Before we apparently defeated him he was willing to offer us a deal: our dreams, for his Apocalypse. We turned him down. We killed him, apparently. Yet here we are living our dreams. If this is some unreality, if the devil has won, why would he not just kill us? Running with the maddening idea, as logically as I can, given how much it drives me to terror, I fall upon a bizarre theory: if this is not real, nor some strange afterlife, then he needs us. If he needs us then there is no way we would be able to play around in this wonderful heaven without his watchful eye upon us. If he needed to watch us then who better than -

**"Hal!"** Tom yells.

The light we have just passed is still red. I had been distracted from my game. I slam on the breaks. Alex and Tom hold on to the dash and headrest for dear life, as we draw to a sudden halt.

"Hal, seriously. You do realise we can all die now, right?" Alex yells.

"Yes," I say. "I do realise that."

"You're mental," she adds, pointedly.

Someone in the car behind honks their horn, and swears.

"You wanted to call Allison?" I ask Tom, disregarding the crowding cars and drivers. "You were talking about it earlier."

"Er, yeah, I thought you said it were a bad idea, like."

Alex hits me on the shoulder, hopefully unaware that I am not talking about Allison but Tom's idea to find out where we might meet Lady Highcastle again. Tom, thankfully, has worked out my meaning... I think.

"You should," I clarify, "You should call." I reach into my pocket. I dust off the mobile phone that I find there, and hand it to him. "Use my phone," I say, before the lights change and we continue on to our meal.

* * *

It's chilly, not cold, more like that pleasant coolness that settles in the air at the end of a really warm day, but every now and then Izzy can feel one or two tiny droplets of water hit her skin. She can hear seagulls squawking above her and smell salt in the air.

She suddenly realises she is laying on the ground. On hard, cold concrete. It is most uncomfortable. So she gets to her feet. Her no longer bare feet. She's wearing Converses. Blue ones. She'd always liked Converses, having seen people wearing them on TV whilst on the other side. They looked really comfy, they are really comfy. Where did they come from?

Izzy looks around and catches her reflection in a shop window. It's not just the shoes that are new. Her chemise is gone and she is wearing a dress, a blue summer dress that she swears she had seen in a magazine once. This is weird. Some kid in a hoodie with his earphones in pushes past her.

"Soz," he mutters, leaving Izzy standing rooted to the spot, completely stunned. This is really, really weird.

She glances around at her surroundings, trying to get some idea of where she is. There are lots of people, none of them dead though, that's got to be a good thing, right? The seagulls and salt air would suggest Barry, it's the only place that makes sense, but she doesn't know Barry that well and none of this seems familiar. She needs something familiar.

And there it is, as if by magic. A pale blue mercedes slams on its breaks a few feet beyond her at the lights. There they are. Hal, Tom and, most confusingly, Alex. They're all dressed up, suited and booted. Going somewhere nice? Hal is driving and Alex, sitting in the passenger seat, is having a rather animated rant in his direction. Tom is looking like he wants to stay out of it. Izzy stands still, staring at this little bubble of familiarity and humanity before her. For a moment it is as if she is back in the corridors of purgatory, her nose just inches away from some television screen, watching Hal live. Only, this time, she can join in.

Thinking this is going to be a lot easier than she thought, he closes her eyes and imagines herself sitting in the back seat, beside Tom. But no, of course, nothing is ever that easy.

The car in front of her pulls away, taking the trinity with it, and she can't spirit after it! With no other option left to her, Izzy sighs, and breaks into a run as it begins to rain.

* * *

To Tom's astonishment, despite our lack of ties, and despite us all three smelling of a night in a moving vehicle, the maitre d' at the Park Hotel admits us into the restaurant and leads us to the best table.

I usher our waiter away and pull out the chair for Alex, which amuses her.

"Well, thank you very much, Sir," she grins.

"You're welcome," I say, tightly but as warmly as I can muster given the anxiousness in my belly. Tom has remained in the foyer to 'call Allison'. I order us a bottle of Coudoulet de Beaucastel Blanc, Beaucastel, 2011; a rare vintage, which it seems they just happen to have in stock.

"Your family took it really well," I lead, once seated. I have been waiting for the moment to bring up my concerns. I wanted to do it in a public place, somewhere which would seem neither unnatural nor forced. I am afraid of what will happen, once I say it out loud, if it is real...even if it is not, but Tom is right. We have to do something, even though we all know full well what we could lose, what it could mean.

"Yeah, really didn't think the whole 'I banged my head and lost my memory' thing would have worked," Alex jokes.

"And I was surprised they let you come back with us, I wouldn't have thought they would have let you out of their sight."

"You saying they wanted to get rid of me?" Alex fawns in mock horror, knowing full well that is not my meaning.

"I'm saying, I don't understand why anyone would want to let you out of their sight."

"Human Hal's a lot better at this stuff."

"Well, I don't have to keep the monster at bay any more which allows me a certain degree emotional...latitude."

"Well, I like it."

So do I. I will miss it, when all is said and done. "Yes, It's perfect isn't it?"

"Thanks for that," Tom says, dropping into his seat like a brick and handing me my phone. It is laced with sweat from where he has pressed it to his face.

"Allison's well excited. She'd no idea she was human, till she went to the place where she changes and she spent the whole night there in the nuddy. We're meeting tomorrow. She's gunna pick me up from the train station."

He hasn't actually called her has he? This has to be a ruse. Maybe he didn't get my meaning? If he did he's a much better liar than I have previously imagined.

"How did you explain it," Alex grins.

"I just said 'supernatural stuff'."

"Ah, like 'women's problems', the whole 'one explanation fits all'."

"Have you got a pack of cards?" I ask a passing waiter. As expected, but not hoped for, he produces what I asked for and hands them to me.

"Why d'you want a pack of cards?" Alex asks.

"Shouldn't the question be why did the waiter happen to have some? Think of a card."

"Ace of hearts," says Tom.

Reaching into the pack at random I pick a card. I display it without looking at it.

"'ow'd you do that?" I presume I have picked the Ace of Hearts.

"Now you," I say to Alex.

"Two of clubs."

I produce from the pack...The Two of Clubs, it seems, from Alex's expression.

"Ah! I didn't know you could do magic."

"I can't!" I snap. I didn't want to be true. I can feel myself getting angry again. "Before, we woke up from Hatch's dreams because we didn't have each other there, but here we do. Here we have everything that we want."

"Nah, it's not like that, we're just getting everything we deserve now," Alex corrects me.

"Except that's not how life works." I swear to all that is and ever has been when I get my hands on that bastard Devil I'm going to show him what Hell really is!

"Maybe Alex is right? Maybe this was always meant to 'appen. We're together. Alex has got her family. I've got Allison." It's then I realise that he _has_ called Allison. I wonder if the possibility of being with her has swayed his earlier resolve? Tom continues, "You've got each other, even though it's a bit weird." He knows what I'm getting at, he knows I have proven this world is a lie, and what that might mean, for us all, for Alex. He must know that it's too late, I can't go back, not now that I know this is a glorified prison. I can't pretend, no matter how hard I want to.

"And if it's a lie, what is Hatch doing to the world in our absence?"

The other patrons suddenly stand. They encircle our table in a swarm. It is interesting that this threat occurs _now, _given that both Tom and I have previously considered the same in private. What makes this moment more important than any of the others? I look to Alex.

"Oh... this conversation couldn't have waited till after desert could it? I was gunna have banoffee pie," she sighs as I stand.

"I was going to die one day," I snap again.

"Sod that, I was gonna have sex!" Tom says.

"Anyone else thinking of the last scene out of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?" adds Alex. Another film I have not seen.

We have to leave. If the world in here has reacted to our conversation, then what is it like out there? Are we to be permitted to even leave?

"Right then. So, now what do we do?" Tom asks.

It's a good question. If this is a dream, then how do we leave? I'll be honest I have only one exit strategy, and it isn't one I'm looking forward to enacting without first knowing, for certain, that all three of my friends will be waiting on the other side of it. Step One: confirm that Alex is Alex. Step Two: die. I decide to save explaining either for now.

"Save the world, you know," I say, simply, "the usual..."

We are about to do just that when the doors of the restaurant fly towards us. A petite girl in a summer dress and blue shoes bounds in, out of breath. She is drenched with rain and red faced. She looks up, she looks right at me, at Alex, at Tom, and then at the rebellious drones which surround us.

It has been a long time but I know exactly who she is. What I don't know is what on earth she is doing here.

"Izzy?!"

* * *

**A/N: Thanks to ShoePigeon for further fun with Isabella, here.**


	34. Grace and favour

**A/**_**N: Though I often tease chapters with tunes and vids on twitter I rarely share here, I felt I had to on this one. This chapter has been so solidly inspired by a particular piece of music. I recommend before reading, or during, you accompany this chapter with 'History Repeating', Propellerheads f/ Miss Shirley Bassey. **_

* * *

**Chapter 34 - G****race and favour**

Wake up!_ The word is about, there's something evolving. _A door slams! _Whatever may come. __The world keeps revolving._ A tare of a paper. An olive falls. _They say the next big thing is here. _Rain falls upon a shaking hand. _That the revolution's near. _A manila envelope ends one life. _But to me it seems quite clear. _Another begins. _It's all just a little bit of history repeating!_

_The newspapers shout, a new style is growing. _A fallen handkerchief floats in the sea breeze to the floor. _But it don't know if it's coming or going._Ten suits, one card. _There is fashion, there is fad. _The halting of a train._Some is good, some is bad. _Steam ejects into the sky in a barren wasteland. _And the joke rather sad. _The bell rings. _That it's all just a little bit of History repeating!_

Flasks of blood in a pub. _Some people don't dance. _Bouncing pearls. _ If they don't know who's singing. _Business deals. _Why ask your head? _Power and pilgrimage. _It's your hips that are swinging? G_ood night, good idea. _Life's for us to enjoy. _A press release. _Woman, man, girl and boy._ Blood & fireworks. _Feel the pain. _A photograph. _ Feel the joy. _An email. An Empire. _And side step the little bits of history repeating. _

* * *

_13th June 1960_

Cold water, that was the first thing that she remembered after the nightmares. It dowsed her cheeks and eyes, flooding her sinuses. She coughed and spluttered, sitting up. Then she recalled being shaken. Her neatly pinned hair fell damp about her cheeks.

Coughing, Grace opened her eyes to see the watchful moustache of her husband, Dewi. He eyed her with stiff pig-like disappointment.

"Where are the children?" he asked in an accusatory manner.

"What?" Grace asked, disorientated.

"You were boys should be home by now!"

"I'm sorry," Grace said, rubbing her eyes and neatening her bright dress where it has become scuffed. There is a drop of red blood on the pink cotton. She wiped her face free of water with her skirt, and then rubs at the damp spot with the her finger to remove the unco-ordinated stain.

Dewi smacked her hand away and passed her a towel. "Use this!" he said.

"I'm sorry I don't know what came over me?" Had the visitation, the nightmare, been a dream? There was a woman, and a little girl, they attacked her. She was about to explain when she saw the red case on the table. Not a dream then?

Dewi followed her eyes toward the case. "What's this?" he said in his brash Swansea twang as he reached for it.

"Don't!" she snapped, recalling the warnings of her strange visitors. With surprising strength she pulled him away from it. His wide backside landed on the sofa with a soft thud.

"Grace!"

"I'm sorry."

For the first time in her life, she wasn't.

"What _is_ the matter with you, woman?" Dewi said, pulling at the knot of his tie as if he has had a hard time in the office. He always had a hard time in the office, since a week after they were married at least. Her husband was the sole owner and proprietor of an Import and Export business that he had built up from nothing. It was his everything. Grace knew this when she met him. It was part of what attracted her to him. He seemed so powerful when her father introduced him at her family home, one Sunday after church. She had already known at this point that Dewi was a husband who would be approved of by her family, she had to find something to find attractive in him. It would make it easier. In appearance he had never been anything special. Stocky and brick like then, though smart and impressive upon the arm; he was no less that now, just wider in the middle. The 'Dewi Williams Empire', as he liked to refer to it at cocktail parties, was a good enough reason she since had supposed. She would never want for anything, her father reminded her at these affairs, and it wasn't as if she was pretty enough to have done any better.

"Leaving the washing up like that, I don't know," Dewi said to himself absently, shaking his head as he reached into his jacket pocket for his pipe box. "No dinner and no kids. It's not what I expect when I come home, Grace."

"I'm sorry," she repeated, reaching to her neck to see if there was a wound there from before. If there was, then surely this might explain to her husband what was the cause of her strange behaviour. "It's been an odd day. I'm fine, Dewi."

"I work all day for this family," her husband continues. "I don't ask much of you, Grace."

The clock began to strike. _Bing!_

"I know." She was beginning to feel hungry herself. Dewi's mention of dinner must have triggered something in her. She ran her mind through a quick inventory of everything in the larder and found that none of it appealed for supper. _Bing!_

Dewi finally pulled off his tie and rolled it into a neat little spiral. He papped his lips around his pipe to light the frail tails of tobacco inside. "A warm house," he said, "A nice supper," the fronds of leaf sparked, "Happy children." _Bing! _He leant himself forward, gripping his pipe between the back teeth. She noticed that the corner of his mouth his was nicotine-yellowed. She had never seen that before. He talked through the other side as he placed the tie-roll on the table beside the strange gift that had been left for her. She noticed a strange scent in the room, under the pipe smoke, the work-a-day cotton whiff of her husband's clothes, ink, strong tea and ale. There was a beguiling coppery tinge to the air, it made her happy like Christmas Why did she feel like she wanted to dance. It was so unlike her. Somewhere she was certain she could hear music, a delicate percussive beat. _Bing!_

She wet her tongue inside her skull.

She bit her pillowed lip.

_Bing! _Her husband's fingers slipped to his starched collar. He unbuttoned the top of his shirt and settled back on the sofa like a beached seal with a sigh. He closed his eyes as he kicked off his brown brogues, sending them rolling on the carpet, displaying his heavy, woolen socks to the elements. Despite the smell of his feet, and the way they smeared her recently polished table-top, Grace could not take his eyes from his throat. He has such a thick neck. She had not noticed it before, not even when starching his shirts and ironing the collars there. _Bing!_

"I don't know, Grace," Dewi said, "I hardly think what your father would say if your mother had been such a wife."

She didn't hear him, there was another sound she could not fail to hear, what she had though was music before: a thudding, pumping sound. Perhaps the pipes.

"I'll put the supper on," Grace said, standing and dusting down her skirt. She turned to the mirror to neaten and tidy her hair.

_Bing!_

She caught her breath, seeing nothing in the wall mirror to denote her presence. She had felt like a wifely void for so long now, to see the reality of it in the mirror was disconcerting but...more than that. It was exciting. Voids, after all, could be filled up with anything. This reflection was punctuated by the sudden silence of Seven o'clock.

Dewi looked up at her as she caught her breath, "What _is_ the matter, woman?"

"Nothing, Dear," she smiled with an open mouth at the nothingness before her.

Dewi slipped his feet onto the floor and moved to towards the red case again, finding a small slip of card there. "'_Mr R Turner; 16 Crucifix Lane, Waterloo, Londo_n'?" he read. "You had another man in my house? A salesman! You know how I feel about that."

"No!" Grace turned on her heels and looked down at him.

"What have you brought?" snapped Dewi, ignoring her.

"Don't," she asked nicely.

He moved forward towards the case again. Something in her snapped. She stepped in. Locking her hand about his wrist where it hung in the air, she held it tight. Her small fingers barely touched around his thick wrist, but it took surprisingly little to stop him.

"I said, 'Don't'."

Something bubbles inside. It started with amusement at his stunned face. The way his little features redden, how he seems so affronted by her manner. It finished with conviction.

"Grace, I..."

"That's mine." She picked up the case from the table and held it to her thigh. She snapped the card out of his other hand.

"Well, I have never!" Dewi proclaimed.

"Get used to it. Things are going to change around here. Starting today."

"You can't talk to me like that!" her husband spat with righteous indignation. "I'm you're..."

"You are a nobody. You have nothing to offer, Dewi Williams, nothing at all. I'm going out." She strolled towards the door, case in hand, and took up her coat and purse. "Don't wait up."

_16th June 1960_

A woman, a vampire, in a pink cotton dress entered Richard's office with her pink purse clasped neatly in her hands. She sat at his desk, inspecting the chair before making herself comfortable. He waited, amused as her petticoats bunched by her breasts. Such a strange appointment. She waited, pertly, as if expecting him to offer her some tea and a crumpet.

"Cigarette?" he said, opening the silver box before him. She shook her head, removed a slip of paper card from her purse with a click, and slid it across the table to him. It was his card. He read it. He turned it over. He turned it over again. "What is it I can do for you Mrs Williams?"

She opened the purse on her lap again, with a click, and took out a note-pad and pencil. Licking the end of the pencil acutely she began to read down the list. "You are going to place some investments for me at my instruction. You are going find me a lawyer so that I may arrange a divorce and the affairs of my estate. You are going to purchase my husband's company in my name. You are going to purchase me a safe deposit box. You are going to purchase my home for me. You will use these accounts." She turned the page of her notepad and slid a torn paper over to him, before she closed the little pad and returned it to her purse. "And you are going to make me a martini, no olive, please."

Richard stared at the woman with something between hilarity and horror.

"And why, exactly, am I going to do all this for you?"

"Why?" The pink lady asked, "Because I asked nicely, Mr Turner."

"I'm afraid I am going to need a little more than that."

She reached into her purse and took out a letter, upon which was written his name. It had been opened. Richard slipped his fingers inside and peered at the contents.

"This is my..." The envelope listed details of every dodgy deal he had placed, especially the ones he would rather none of his clients, nor the Old Ones, ever discovered. No one had that information to their hand! He had always been so careful with his accounts, only his most intimate of cohorts would have access to such information...and they were all dead.

"I think that the technical term for it is blackmail, but let's call it Business, shall we."

"How did you get this information!"

"Mr Turner," said the Pink Lady, "Business is Business. Do we have a deal?" she held out her little hand politely, expectantly.

_24th December 1961_

Dewi Williams entered the worn office of a squalid legal firm somewhere in London. His wide forehead was sweating. He ran from the train. He was late.

Sitting in the room he saw his estranged wife, who 'went out' over a year ago and left him with the kids. Since then he had to sell his business, take up a second job, turn the house into a B&B to pull in extra rent, put the kids in with his sister and move into a nasty little flat above a coffee shop. The place smelled of fat and had rats.

Grace looked up at him from the Chesterfield armchair, coldly as he stood alongside her, dripping with sweat from his run. He noticed that his mac was still torn, and there was a burn mark on his sleeve from the grilled toast he had spoiled that morning. Conversely she was dressed in a smart knee length dress, still wore her coat, which was pristine, white gloves, and the pearls her mother brought her as a wedding gift, which lay in the cleft of her neck, teasingly. Her dark hair was scooped up like that of Audrey Hepburn. She did not look like his wife.

"Dewi," she acknowledged, holding out her small hand. "This is my solicitor, I think you have met previously."

Dewi, after wiping his palm on his old jacket (one of two he had not yet pawned) held it out to the flat-faced chap behind the desk. "Mr Cutler," he nodded reverentially.

The solicitor sat, "Great, so, we should probably get on with proceedings then?" he said with an amused grin. "You've signed the papers, I take it?" he asked, shuffling through the many piles of notes upon his desk for a pen. He caught sight of the sweaty and creased manila envelope that Dewi had clutched in his armpit, and pointed. When the man did not answer, he added, "That them?"

"Oh? Oh, yes," Dewi prised the papers from his keep and dusted them off self-consciously.

"Spectacular," Mr Cutler said and took the papers out of the reluctant man's paw.

Mr Williams turned to his wife, "Please, Grace, can't we talk about this?"

"I don't think so, Dewi, best we keep things cordial. For the children, Dear."

"Great," Cutler enunciated, awkwardly, his eyes widening. He checks the papers briefly, "Sooo, by the powers vested in me , blah blah blah, I now pronounce you divorced and …" he leant forward towards Grace, "Was that all? Can we..." he waved both hands through the air at the wrist as if conducting a tiny orchestra.

"Yes, if all is in order. Thank you Mr Cutler, he's all yours." Grace stood and held out her hand, "A pleasure doing business with you. If you are ever in need of anything…"

She did not look at Dewi who eyed her like an abandoned St Bernard.

"Of course," Cutler said as he stood, half bent at the middle in his crumpled suit. He pushed his hair over at the parting to smarten himself up as he led the newly single woman to his door. "Please do put a good word in with..."

"Nothing more need be said, Mr Cutler, I am sure you can expect plenty of future business as long as everything gets tidied away cleanly. Goodbye Dewi, do say hello to my Father when you see him."

"Goodbye, Ms Stoker," Cutler bowed.

She passed out of the office, leaving Dewi horribly confused. Mr Cutler shut the door.

"Woman's clear gone mad," Dewi snided, "Her old man has been dead over two years."

"Really?" added the solicitor, locking the door from the inside. "Funny that," he said, turning to Mr Williams with a vicious and hungry smile.

_8th September 1964_

Leo was looking smart, an interview with their bank manager, or so he told Hal, to take out some of his savings. His brown suit was a little baggy at the sides, it was difficult to make ends meet at the moment in South End. He had lost a good deal of weight. Pearl had to pin his trousers on at the back.

The situation had not been made easier by the fact that Hal was going through a bad patch. It was his 450th birthday and he had not let them forget it was coming. He had been mentioning it for weeks, about how worried he was he would go on some sort of rampage. He tried to get Leo to board up the windows again, but Pearl had refused to "Live in the dark, just because His Highness is feeling sensitive about his age".

Keeping clients was difficult thanks to Hal's railing. He had endlessly pointed out, that morning, that the bank manager should be damned, it could wait! He was on the brink, goddamnit, he needed "Stability! Company! Structure! What's stable about you running off every five minutes and leaving me with this harridan."

"Harridan!" Pearl snorted indignantly, "That's rich coming from you! Rich indeed! Ha."

"Please," Leo had sighed. "I'll stay."

"You will do nothing of the sort!" Their resident vampire might not actually need food, Pearl informed Hal chippily, and yes, well, maybe neither did she, but there simply was not enough in the kitty to ensure Leo was healthy, nor food in the larder to keep the hungry toddler hostage, let alone a wolf. "And what will become of us then, hm! Have you thought about that, Your Highness! When he drops dead on the welcome mat from mal-nutrition! You'll love that won't you? Running off back to your old ways and leaving me to pick up the pieces." Come what may, she insisted, the health of the man who kept a roof over their heads was, "Damn well important to us, even if you don't give a damn about anyone but yourself, you silly man. Off you go to the bank now Leo, and come back with twenty tins of beans and a loaf." and so with that, he was ushered outside like a chastised sprat.

At the bank door Leo straightened his pocket square and dusted his spats on the back of his trousers as he stepped inside, preparing to beg for money he did not have. He checked behind him. Though he had insisted Pearl remain at the shop, to keep an eye on Hal, she had confidently threatened to come with him to check he didn't 'mess it up'.

He was surprised, to say the least, to see a new face in the atrium. Since they had escaped Hal's gang, back in fifty-five, Leo had avoided all the supernaturals he could for both their sake's. Pearl, he smiled, didn't count. The deal he had struck with Miss Weaver, back when they had met in Paris, was straight forward: he would assist in the safekeeping of a particularly nasty vampire, she would pay for the rent on that little shop he had always dreamt of, and ensure he was not killed in the process. It had been touch and go a little, back during the dog fights, and he had never reckoned on having it so bad, killing those poor men and all. But it had remained a secret that he had reluctantly kept once free, if only because he was afraid what Hal might do if he learned the truth and the devil's bargain he had made for this peaceful existence never rested well in his conscience. After he had moved into the shop he had hoped to never have dealings with any other vampires, other than the one that lived in his spare room.

Finding one before him now, a woman, and a stranger, was disconcerting.

"Good morning, Leo." The woman, in a smart grey tweed dress suit, pearls, and carrying a heavy organiser, indicated he should shake her gloved hand. He reached out, cautiously, and took it. "No need to be concerned. I'm simply here to conduct the final business you have on your account and deliver you a gift from your benefactor."

"Miss...m..."

"My name is Stoker, Grace Stoker, I'm simply the executor here. This is just business, we'll be done in no time at all." She took some papers from her organiser and a pen, "Shall we begin?"

"I..."

"You are presently resident in the following property on the sea-front, I believe?" she passed him some papers. He nodded. "If you could sign here and here," she said, pointing to some papers tagged with little coloured paper-clips. He tapped his pockets searching for a pen, only to find she was handing hers out to him. He took it.

"Thank you," he said.

"You're very welcome. How does it feel to be a property owner?"

"I'm sorry?" he asked.

"The shop which you have been tenant in, it is now yours. These are the deeds," she handed him a packet tied with a pink ribbon, "They were left to me some time ago to me with instructions to follow up and complete the transaction. I am only sorry it has taken me so time. It's difficult to retain a good secretary."

"I don't understand, are you a friend of Miss Weaver?"

"Does it matter?" she asked, "The property is now yours."

"But," he began as the lady stood and reapplied the lid to her pen, scribbled in her note book and then pinned her hat upon her head. "I don't understand, what am I supposed to do now?"

"That's your business, Leo, Good day." She paused strangely at the door. Then turned, "May I ask you a question?"

Leo looked at the papers with awe, he _owned_ the shop. It was _all_ his. There was his name on the papers. Suddenly all the agony seemed worth it, even the high maintenance tenant. He was free now, truly, a man of means, of property. "Yes," he said absently.

"You're a werewolf, correct?"

He looked about the bank, terrified that the other patrons might have heard, but they went about their business. "Y - yes."

"Do you live alone?"

He did not know how to answer. This woman must not know his arrangements. Should he lie? No matter what he had learned he was not inclined to anger any vampires necessarily. Yet he could not tell the truth, he was more than familiar with the secrets he was obliged to keep, his own, Hal's, his recent benefactor. He did not owe this woman the truth. "There's a ghost, she keeps the house, though I would rather she wouldn't."

Miss Stoker smiled, "You look thin. I'm not inclined to give money away, but a trim would not go amiss. Might I attend your establishment for a cut? I'll pay of course."

"I...Now is possibly not the best time," he bluffed.

"I don't bite," Ms Stoker smiled, "Not often, anyway. I have other means of supporting myself. Your clients are safe with me. I am very discreet with those whom I do business with. It would be worth your while." She sat down beside him, "Truly, I am not one with the petty squabbles between anyone, it does no good to discriminate. It is a waste of time and opportunity. You know, some years ago I took on a business which was doing terrible trade, sending parts, sprockets and whatsits around Wales because the owner, a foul and impotent little fellow, would not do business with your kind."

"Werewolves?"

She laughed, "No, Leo, fellows of colour. The best trade and market was with Jamaica at the time and he would not touch the routes, too narrow minded. We opened up the opportunity when no one else would, an untapped market of alumina, bauxite, sugar, rum, coffee, chemicals, people. Since then, given the possibilities open to me, I have opened up networks with all sorts: vampires, the dead, humans, even some other rather foul creatures. There is one truth, Leo, whether you are dead, alive, mortal, immortal, woman, man, blue, black, white, gold, tall or small, god or monster...everything is equal when money is involved and everything can be traded with anyone for the right price. You need clients?"

"Yes."

"You haven't got any, clearly," she answered her own question, "I hate to see free and enthusiastic enterprise discriminated against. If there's one thing I cannot abide it is a bully."

"I don't know what you mean, Miss."

"There a vampire involved, isn't there? Scaring away your clientele? Threatening or terrorising you in some way?"

"Not really, well, yes, of sorts. I have it under control."

"You can't control a vampire, Leo, I should know. You are sure you would not like me to intervene? I can be quite persuasive. As I said, everyone has a price, something they will trade. This vampire that is bothering you, I'm sure there is something I can offer to -"

"No, it's fine, Miss."

She paused, "It's a friend isn't it? This vampire? You're protecting them."

"No!" he stopped her, standing, "Really, we're all fine."

"All?

"Pardon, I really should go." He hurried out the door, papers clutched in hand and only hoped she did not follow. He dropped his pocket square as he ran. As he ploughed through the high street he suddenly remembered the little brown handkerchief was Hal's. It had his initials embroidered on here, a little gold H and Y which Pearl had spent an hour on.

He looked back. The woman had not followed.

_19th May 1961_

A woman strolls into Donaldson, Williams and Ward in the Burlington Arcade. She orders ten outfits. She pays with just a business card. It reads 'Grace Stoker, CEO, Stoker International Trading plc'.

_1__st__ Jan 1963_

The train pulled into West India docks. From the front carriage a small foot stepped onto the grimy step. A woman wove her way to the ground. Delicate, assured, she placed her foot on the dust and surveyed the dockland. She coughed into a brown handkerchief, opened her purse and removed a note book.

Trade in the docks had declined to almost nothing in the last two years. Business has started to suffer. Ms Stoker had told her assistant that she wanted to take a look for herself. There were two main reasons, she fathomed: First, the development of the shipping container had now this type of relatively small dock inefficient, luckily she had several thousand shipping containers now at her disposal, that just meant that the dock-owners were the problem. Slow to embrace change, it was time she brought forth her methods of encouragement, inspiration and insistence to the matter. Second, the manufacturing exports, which had maintained the trade through the docks, had now dwindled and moved away from the local area.

Stepping onto the dusty London spit, the aptly named Isle of Dogs, she sighed. "You know this place needs?" she said to her Assistant, a ghost of the name of George Trevelyan, an ex-historian and the best of an interviewed lot in '62 that included a relatively poor death pool.

"A park would be nice, I should think," he noted, his love of historic buildings and public grounds was hardly satisfied in this barren and industrial place.

"No, No, George, I was thinking one of those glorious tall things from New York we saw. What did they call them?"

Trevelyan tutted, "Good Lord, Ms Stoker, you don't mean one of those Skyscratching monstrosities?"

"Yes!" Grace said with a nod, "Though I should have thought you would disapprove." She clearly cared less for the old historian's architectural concern and so began to take notes with enthusiasm, "Get me a meeting with Turner this afternoon, I want to see the Heads of the PLA, GLC, Gas, Electric, Rail etc etc, oh and Macmillan, tomorrow. We need to talk regeneration scheme. And find me one of those architects, actually fetch a few."

"Alive or dead?" Trevelyan asked hurriedly making his own notes, coolly, but did not get a response.

_26th March 1973_

The bell rings. It is a cold, and wet day, when the London Stock Exchange finally opens its doors to seven newly-elected women. Muriel Wood, Susan Shaw, Hilary Root, Anthea Gaukroger, Elisabeth Rivers-Bulkeley, Audrey Geddes and a small woman in smart court shoes, a black skirt-suit with white piped trim. She is impeccable in her twin set. She a carried a flask of sweet o-negative in her handbag. Though none of the records or photographs at the time report her name or show her face, there she is among them, Triumphant.

When she walked in the men stared at her as much as they stared at her human colleagues, but they looked a little harder at her. Something about her unsettles them. She smiled. If only they knew.

The 'coven's' admission into the 170-year-old members-only club was thought to be something Britain would never see. One male City worker, when the bell was rung by a butler at 3.15pm in the Exchange, allowing members to light up for the 'smoking rattle', summed up the opposition to his smoking buddy in the pit. "There are certain professions," he said, "best done by men - like coal mining and stockbroking."

The dark-haired female interloper passed him by in her clacking court-shoes, and stubbed out her cigarette. She smiled politely as she clicked her silver cigarette case away in her purse with a snap. Strangely, he didn't come home that day. No one connected the incidents.

She had walked in, the owner of a successful Welsh business empire.

She walked out that week with one million pounds in her own pocket. She achieved the same almost every week after, if not more. Every Friday night she met with an elongated man in a grey suit at a local pub. She handed him several thousand pounds in an envelope. He would pass her sealed bottle that sloshed warmly in her hand. With that their business would be done.

_9__th__ February 1979_

Ivan and Trevelyan were busy talking about the Russian revolution at the bar at the Rummer Tavern when Grace returned from the bathroom. Ivan was now drinking heavily. He smiled and poured Grace another Martini as she approached. The place was empty, though Grace assumed it had not been when her vampire associates had arrived earlier.

"Mrs Williams!" Ivan jibed suavely, dropping an olive into the glass. She hated it when he called her that, and reminds him as much with a glare. They were celebrating, before Ivan and his companion board one of her boats to Vietnam. She had met the couple through Richard, many years ago, which explained how he came to know some of her history, "Whatever did happen to that husband of yours?" Ivan joked.

"Possibly the same thing that happened to your first wife, Ivan," she smiled at the charming welsh giant as she collected her drink and tapped her watch. She hardly fraternised with her kind except when she had to, or when it was worth something, but if she had to choose one of the vampires to associate with, it would be Ivan, the comforting association of a kinsman.

Apart from their Cymric associations they were quite opposite creatures, so always found their friendship amusing on such occasions. He trusted chaos where she respected control, they both, however, found each other useful. He kept her abreast of the politics among their ranks. She needed to keep here ear to the ground with his lot, just in case they pulled the trigger on that world domination scheme, which would be terrible for business. In return she provided him cheap travel, the occasional rescue if he got himself too deep in the chaos he reveled in, and offered him intellectual discussion when he felt his society a little too coarse by dispatching Trevelyan to his side once in a while to chew the cud.

She returned to their table to collected her coat, hinting to her Assistant that there were important places to be. Daisy slid over, barring her exit with a grin. It was not a secret that Grace had never been a fan of the impish creature, but she was always nice because of Ivan.

"I didn't think you pissed?" spat Daisy. "Like the Queen." She mock curtseyed.

Grace took out her little personal organiser from her coat pocket and read through her notes, ignoring the woman, "Trevelyan, that meeting at 8am, about the Enterprise Zone, was it with Heseltine or Margaret?" She sipped at the clear and bitter drink.

"Thatcher, Ms Stoker," he responded.

"Best get the blue suit pressed then. Three months, Trevelyan, you'll see."

"She won't win," Trevelyan sighed. Ivan laughed.

Grace smiled, "A little bird I know says otherwise."

"Ungh!" Daisy groaned, "Suits and meetings and business! Is that all you care about? You're a fucking vampire! You should let go more, love! You need more excitement. Liiiive a little," Daisy sighed, and tugged at her collar, half exposing herself like a lunatic. She was wearing barely a thing. Grace smiled politely.

"An ironic suggestion, Daisy, given our condition," she finished her drink and nodded to Trevelyan. No more time for gossip. "Any way, I live very well, thank you,

"Come to Phnom Penh, let it out your system! You need to cut loose. Especially if what I hear is true…" continued Daisy in a sing-song. She reached forward, trying to grab for Grace's pearls. Not acceptable. In a flash Grace twists Daisy over and plants her on the damp of the pub table.

"What have you heard?"

"You and I…" Daisy, unflustered by Ms Stoker's strange display of strength, giggled into the wet wood. "We're cut from the same cloth! Housewives choice. Sometimes we just snap!"

"We," Grace said flatly, standing, releasing her, "Are _nothing_ alike."

Her pearls did not survive the interaction. They snapped and slid from the string, bouncing off the table, the floor, under the brass bar.

"Do you ever think of your children?" Daisy asked, sincerely, darkly, as they rolled away.

"Of course I do, who do you think runs my US division?" Grace left. She could buy more pearls than she could push down Daisy's throat if she had wanted.

_4th August 1986_

Everything was growing, chiming, dancing with money. The buildings kept going up. The trade routes kept expanding. Every time Grace checked her resource figures they would go up and up. She checked the balance sheets daily, expecting them to fall but, no matter how much she spent, the bottom line steadily climbed. The routes to South America were growing strong, faster than the northern routes. Her companies served humans, vampires, wolves, anything that did not fly, or teleport. Next year SIT plc would be branching into airlines. Meetings with the few Demonic traders she had met suggested that even the purgatory network might be a viable trade corridor. There was a lucrative trade in vampire blood which was worth billions. Three shadow companies were to open on the Exchange in two weeks to support demand.

She felt like a lonely spider in a web, pulling at all those little strings.

And every day she thought back to that day she left the washing up and 'went out'.

She opened the drawer to her bureau. Inside there was a red case. There it was, a quiet threat that something was coming, that she should 'make hay' while the sun shone. It was silent blessing, and a vociferous curse. Or at least it had been, once. Now it was just a case, practically empty except for the notes left by the one that made her.

She decided that, soon, a pilgrimage may be needed to their old house in Barry. She would always keep it. She rented it out occasionally, but rarely visited. Maybe every five years. Has it been that long? Maybe it had longer. She hits the button on the intercom.

"Someone get me Trevelyan?" she asked the werewolf at the door, a young Dutch woman named Clara Furse, whom she had found to be an excellent receptionist and promising business woman.

"He's meeting your two o'clock in Bristol?"

"Two o'clock?"

"The Vampires, Ms Stoker. The ones you said you'd rather eat your own toe-nail clippings than meet with. They said they had a business proposition. They wrote every year for the last seven."

"Oh, them?" she turned in her chair and stared out across the London skyline for a moment, bored.

Bristol was on the way to Barry, wasn't it?

Grace collects the old case and her gloves. She was on a train in thirty minutes. She was in Bristol in under two hours. A funeral parlour? What kind of opportunity was that?

Like everywhere she went these days, she walked in as if she owned it. Often times this was because she did. She stopped, wondered if this was a property she had purchased, this was why Trevelyan was handy, he always remembered these things. The vampire on the front desk was an idiot. "I'm here to see a Mr Herrick and…"

A handsome, suited Irish vampire ran out into the hallway holding out his hand, his hair slicked back with Brylcreem. "Miss Stoker!"

"Ms," Grace corrected. "And you must be?"

"Mitchell, John Mitchell, Mr…Mr Mitchell."

"Nice to meet you," she paused, took out her filofax a moment, the name had rung a bell. There it was, from her last meeting with Ivan, she knew the name had a ring of familiarity. He had come up in conversation. Herrick she was well aware of, a nasty little man, who was far too close to her own history than she cared to admit. "I thought I would hear your proposal after all. You were so eager."

"Well, it's Herrick's idea really."

She followed him. Seeing the ginger little man with Trevelyan in the office at the back. Trevelyan shook his head when she met him with a smile. She knew, immediately, it would be bad meeting. She should not have come. She toyed with the red case at her side, and tried not to get angry, as the little red-haired man sermonised about his schemes.

Eventually she could take not more. Half way through the meeting, bored, she excused herself and left the building. She did not turn back until, a few moments down the street. She heard feet pound the pavement behind her. When she turned she saw the vampiric yuppie stop, out of breath, behind her. Mitchell smiled winningly.

"Ms…Ms Stoker….You…You didn't let us finish."

"I do not invest in slavery, Mr Mitchell, especially in human slavery."

"I…but Herrick…"

"Eighty per cent of my customer base is human, John, chaining them up and using them for food is bad for business. If you think I would invest you should change the company you keep." She smiled, recalling the rolling pearls, "My advice to you, cut the apron strings, Mr Mitchell, live a little."

She turned.

"I've another idea," Mr Mitchell called out, as if suddenly he had something worth saying that was not a carbon parotting of his maker's rhetoric. "It doesn't involve killing anyone."

She paused. She turned on her toes.

"You have my attention."

"I do?" he laughed with awkward confidence.

"I'll be staying the night in town," she explained, bluntly, "Room 202 in the Grand Spa Hotel."

"I'll tell Herrick," the beholdent vampire suggested.

Grace lifted her hand to stop him there. "I'm not interested in his plans. I'm interested in you, Mr Mitchell. I've heard good things."

"Me? I don't think I could explain it better, not really. It's…"

"Who said I wanted your company for the conversation, Mr Mitchell."

It was one night, and a good one, but it was not a little bit of debauchery to break the boredom that she was thinking about when she threw the young man out into the corridor the next morning and took to her shower. The handsome vampire had hit on a good idea. He wasn't as thick as he seemed. Perhaps he showed promise.

_1997, Internal SIT plc Press Release._

_"After over 10 years hard work and lobbying by SIT plc, and its subsidiaries, we are proud to announce that the WHO has backed our plea for Blood donations to be voluntary, free and will be promoting the creation of supportive Social Policy._

_This coincides with our Mobile Blood Centres hitting the road. This is a not for profit enterprise I am sure you can all back. SIT plc will be at the centre of the support the demand from a large number of health organisations globally. We are opening our trade routes, nationally, and cross border, to commute urgent supplies at low cost to the governments and businesses we support._

_This is our way of giving back to the communities which surround us. Today we make history._

_G. Stoker"_

_1st January 2000_

It could not have been avoided any longer. Fireworks exploded outside in the night sky of New York. The ball dropped. A spider at the centre of a vast web watched the skyline as lights and joy painted the night. She had spent the day celebrating with her son, he had just turned fifty.

She saw no reflection in the glass as the man approached behind her, the man they called Snow, but she felt his cold hand on her shoulder.

It had been a long time since a man had made her jump. She knew who he was immediately.

He smiled at her with brown teeth. "The last New Millennia," he sighed absently, "We ate babies till we were sick. Oh well, each to their own." He handed her a glass deep with blood. She had learned, from Ivan, a long time ago not to drink anything Snow handed her. She hesitated, and wondered if she has to reach a certain age before he might try to recruit her for his little gang. He looked sidelong out of the large windows, and stroked at the thick glass panels which separated them from the sparkling cold. "I don't think I will ever understand those who celebrate such moment without feeling the need to pillage." He slipped the glass to his lips and drank. She lifted the same to hers, she could smell no vampire blood. For that she was grateful. However, that of her son, her son's children, and her son's wife, was so powerful it made her eyelashes curl.

The point was well made. She would give him that.

The drink was sweet. For their sake, she made sure she enjoyed every drop.

They came to an accord before morning and it turned out to be quiet lucrative deal. He wasn't too bad really, which, she admitted, would make it so much harder to stomach when the time came to kill him.

_24 January 2001_

When Clara Furse took over as chief executive at the London Stock Exchange. In the photographs taken of the day the woman at her elbow is never captured. When some people asked questions, they were quietly interviewed by a man named Dominic Rook. He was polite, encouraging. For those whose silence could not be paid for in threats it was paid for in stock in SIT plc. It was not one of the highlights of his career, covering for the most powerful Vampire he has yet met, but it was all in the name of the Greater Good, he reasoned. Lord knows what would happen if _she_ was discovered.

_3rd February 2012_

In the dead of night, across a cold black ocean, a container ship carried its precious cargo from Bolivia to Barry. The Old Ones were coming. The Captain called up his Trade Line manager to give him their ETA. His Trade line manager called the Harbour. The Harbour Master called the Distribution Centre. The DC Manager called the Office. The Office Manager called Trevelyan.

Trevelyan appeared in Ms Stoker's kitchen. He found her awake at the table caressing a wine glass deep with blood. She had gone through two bottles. Her papers and notes lay around her, untouched. She was swirling the glass in her fingers.

"They are on their way," he said.

"It's started then?"

"You can stop it, divert them to Portsmouth? London?"

Grace shrugged and finished her drink, "No," she sighed, "Barry seems apt, it is where they are supposed to be. Cheers, George."

"Cheers?"

"Job well done, Trevelyan, One step closer to the Apocalypse, my old friend. Best lock up the silver." She put the glass down upon what, at first, he thought was a napkin. It was, in fact, a monogrammed brown handkerchief.

He was about to leave. "Before you go, Trevelyan, be a dear and send up the cleaner. I need to live a little tonight. You'll look after him in the morning won't you, get his business done and send him on his way."

"Of course, Ms Stoker. You know you've no need to ask."

"Excellent," she smiled, "You are so very useful, Trevelyan, I don't know what I would do without you." She finished her drink and awaited her nightcap. It never was the same out of the bottle, she conceded.

_.. and I've seen it before_  
_.. and I'll see it again_  
_.. yes I've seen it before_  
_.. just little bits of history repeating_

Dominic Rook swallows hard. He thought he had a good idea when he asked Hal Yorke to take charge of the errant vampires. He could think of nothing better than having such a man under the control of the Archive, paid in blood. And such a man in control of the Vampires which they could not tame would have been a gift. Now, that hope had died.

He sat at his desk and stared, silently at a spot on the opposite wall. What to do? What to do?

A little email alert popped up on his desktop. The old computer hummed.

He sighed.

_"To: Dominic Rook_

_From: Grace Stoker_

_Subject: You should have spoken to me first, Dominic_

_Expect a meeting._

_Kind regards,_

_GS__"_

It read.

He sighed, "The King is dead," he toasted to the Dusty remnants of the Old Ones which they had scooped up and put in an urn on an Archive shelf, "Long live the Queen."


	35. Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none

**Chapter 35 - Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none**

The restaurant guests around us hover, I suppose the technical term is 'glitch', when Izzy, or what I presume is Izzy, bursts in through the doors at the Park Hotel restaurant. Her entrance throws me from my stride. I backpedal, finding Alex's hand touch upon my back as I do so. She does not move it but leaves it there as a certain presence, as if to remind me to breathe.

Of all the people, in all of my past, that I did not expect to see again, let alone _here_, _now..._it would be her. Lady Isabella Fiston, Izzy. The woman who teased me towards my first dry spell.

This, more than anything, is a cruel trick for the Devil to play. I stand firm, awaiting further indication what this can mean. Izzy simply pants, as if trying to catch her breath. I look at my friends, trying to ascertain if they too can see her.

It seems, strangely, that they can.

"You can't stop us!" I say to her with as much confidence as I can muster, given the sudden appearance of this particularly sensitive reminder of my past. I cry into the air, at the Devil himself, "Come and face us yourself, Hatch!"

I am assuming this, like Leo in my previous vision, is some barbed attempt to halt us. Her sudden appearance leaves me with a cold doubt in my earlier convictions. If _this_ is his attempt to hold us in this tempting world, then maybe Alex really is 'my' Alex.

"What?" Izzy coughs. "No! No! We need to get you out. Christ, this really hurts!" she says gripping her side as if it aches.

It is, surprisingly, Alex who takes the lead. "Erm...Izzy, right?" says Alex, "You're sort of in the way. We were doing this big dramatic exit thing."

As if on cue the maitre d' suddenly grabs for Tom. The attack is vicious. He takes our friend forcibly about the shoulders and swings his knee towards Tom's stomach. We turn to assist but, thanks to Tom's quick reflexes, the fight it is short lived. The young man who accosted Tom is considerably less gifted than my friend when it comes to hand-to-hand combat. Tom twists him around and lands him, flat backed and winded, upon the cutlery and glass of our dinner table. The legs of the table beneath give way, everything falls pell-mell to the floor, including the maitre 'd.

Before the rest of the patrons can lurch upon us, we take advantage of Tom's upper hand.

"RUN!" Izzy shouts. It is insistent, unashamedly raw and _very _human.

We do not need to be told twice.

We run!

Within moments we are out of the restaurant, into the foyer, through the front doors and onto the street. I realise, as our feet hit wet pavement, that Tom has managed to grab an umbrella from the rack. No such luck that he has taken it up to shield us from the pounding rain. As we pass the threshold he hooks it around the handles of the door, barring the patrons inside from following. They crowd at the door, thrumming upon the glass like wild animals.

Turning, we stop dead in our tracks.

The rain hits the pavement, each drop lands large and heavy, like the boot mark of an angry god. We have been in the rain a moment, we are already wet through.

Men, women, children, the old, the young, bin-men to businessmen, traffic wardens to mothers pushing their little babies in their pushchairs. Dozens of them! As we pass, we catch their gaze, they leave what they are doing and head towards us at pace. First one, then another. Then another. Then another! I feel the attention of a Universe draw down upon us, heavy in its gravity. I realise, as we plough through the streets, that hundreds of minds are all thinking as one. This world, once so perfect, is turning against us now, one heart at a time.

"The car!" insists Tom suddenly, and we're off in a more coordinated direction. We wipe our faces of water as we head half-blind, half-breathless towards the NCP, where we left my car. The strange, and clearly human, manifestation of Isabella follows, unbidden. I occasionally turn to look at her, unlike the rest of those who chase us, she seems to be as concerned with fighting off the rest as we are. I try to lead us away from her but it's no use. To the horror of Alex and Tom. I stop. We have outrun most that are following by now. Tom takes on the rest. Alex picks up a traffic cone and swings it at anyone that comes near the nearest exit.

"How dare you!" I spit. Leo was special, to use _him _to get to me was one thing, but to use Isabella is lower than I had considered even the Devil might stoop.

"What?" said the manifestation of my old haunt, coughing from lack of breath. "Look I can..."

"Hal!" Alex calls for me, wielding the cone in the direction of a small old woman who is trying to attack her with a stick.

I turn, disregarding the small ghost and checking upon Alex instinctively. "What!" I head to assist, but she waves me back.

"She's in on it, you idiot!"

"I know," I sigh with exasperation, "that's why I..."

"No! Not the creepy alt-universe of Happy, cupcake, on that thing with Belinda I was telling you about." The old woman lunges for Alex with a growl.

"Belinda?" I ask with concern.

"Izzy came to see me, well she popped up on the telly..."

"What!"

"When you were playing house with Crumb!" Alex brings the cone down on the old woman with a hollow thud as the guard from the NCP booth comes for her with a golf club.

"Hal, what's going on mate?" Tom lumps up, his eyebrow split from the fight, one tooth hangs precariously from his lip. He yanks it out with pride and spits a mouthful of blood on the floor. "You want me to take this one?"

Izzy backs away with terror, "Look, I've literally come through hell to get here, can you just hear me out please?! I'm begging you, Hal!"

"What is this mate?" Tom asks, hesitating.

I point at Isabella, "This...this...is a cruel bloody joke, that's what _this_ is."

"I am _not_!" Isabella insists. "I told you I'm here to get you out. It's Armageddon out there!"

"Where?"

"There! Where you're both snoozing like happy elves. I should ask _you_ what's going on, never mind me! Wake up you idiots!"

I ignore her, turning to Tom, "She's an old ghost of mine, crossed over hundreds of years ago!" Bile rises to my throat. I think of how this child left me, after all our years together, after the pits and fights, and silence. "She can't be 'in' on anything?" I say to Alex.

"I _am_ here, you know?" Izzy huffs, "You could try asking me."

"I am not about to engage in conversation with a figment!"

"I am NOT a figment!" Izzy stamps.

"An illusion, then? A fantasy? A fiction? What would you prefer?"

"Neither, you buffoon, none. I just need you to listen, please, I... wait?" she turns to Alex, "What do you mean 'that thing with Belinda'? What do you know?"

Alex ducks the Security guard's swing and kicks him in the stomach, "_You_ said she was important, during _Deal or No Deal, _you knew about her plan right?"

Myself, Tom and Izzy, stare at Alex in horror, simultaneously, we all say: "Plan?"

"Aye," Alex says, distracted by how we stare, "She implied there was a plan, I figure Grace has something to do with it, Colette too, when Izzy appeared I guessed she was in on -" The guard takes another swing catching Alex around the head. It meets her skull with powerful accuracy.

"No!" I yell as she begins to collapse at the knees. I run to ensure she meets no further injury and come up against the security guard's further blows. Tom also comes to her aid, the joint defense of our friend rains down upon the man, who comes off worse. As we fight more and more people gather, not aiming for us, this time, but Izzy.

I try not to care. With fists bloodied, I pick up Alex into my arms.

Tom rushes to the aid of the Devil's Isabella-shaped misdirection.

"What are you doing?" I call, "It's a trick!"

"Take Alex home!" he calls back, as he begins to whale upon a gang of youths. "I'll sort this out!"

Gently, I lift Alex into my arms. Her head tucks into the cleft of my throat like a puzzle-piece. I can feel the warmth and stickiness of the blood on her scalp touch upon my neck. I find myself recalling that moment, so long ago, that I saw her dead. I could not save her then. Her humanity was stoppered from her by Culter, poured out on a foul floor. I was too late, that time, too obsessed with my own pain to worry about that of another.

Not again!

I hold her close. I take a breath. I search the rows for my car as quickly as I am able. Despite the strangeness of what has so recently accosted us, old ghosts, vast crowds, the haunting presence of dead lovers in every conversation, the heavy weight of the Devil's will, and the promise that beyond this flight lies a life I am desperate to avoid, something about the woman in my arms focuses my attention. I am not trying to save the world right now, just Alex.

That is enough, for me, for now.

It is enough to force me forward. I cannot help but think that this is my doing. Whatever this world is, it was my doubt in Alex which drove me to call out the imperfect perfection of it. Yet here she is now, bleeding, again, because of me. Could I have avoided this if I had just trusted in her. Could I have held my tongue. A minion of the Devil would not fight like she did, bleed like that for us, surely? It is not in the nature of the man I met to hide his deviousness in something like her. He is more likely to tease at my history, using ghosts, like Leo, like Izzy, who next will come and remind me of the monster I might return to and how much better the world will be better off without him; of how much better of I will be, and those for whom I care?

I should not have meddled. Maybe we _could_ have been happy? I should have not been so stupid.

I stumble towards the car with a groaning Alex gaining consciousness again. She reaches up with an arm, grasping loosely over my left shoulder. She holds tightly, pulling at the fabric of my jacket as if it is all that is protecting her from falling to the floor. "I've got you," I say. "I won't let go"

"I got you to love me sooo" she hums drowsily in my arms. It is so familiar that makes my blood cold. I think of the day we drove back from her parents, that first time, and then further back to what that tune reminds me of, it is so happy, and so sad, for me: a blood drunk vampire in a chair, a naked Belinda Weaver in my arms, broken promises, loss.

Stay focused, Hal! It doesn't mean anything. "We're going home," I say.

I fumble for the keys in my pocket to open the car door as I listen to the fight raging distantly between my friend Tom and those who would seek to harm him. It hurts my stomach to know he is fighting without me. I am hungry to bring down my anger on those who seemingly represent the Devil's plan. I could lock Alex safely in the car and go to his aid. Alex, her eyes opening as I place her into the passenger seat, pausing to strap her in, draws my attention to her when I glance back towards the sound.

"He'll be fine," she says dizzily.

Perhaps it is better that it is Tom, not I, who attacks those who attack us. Even though I am human, there is something in me that would certainly bring down a crueler rage on these dream-creatures, knowing what I know now. They still seem so human, however, and such action would not be without some price. At least Tom will show the kind of restraint that will keep his human soul pure in the real world. Even now...especially now... I am likely to lean towards past experience and kill the lot of them without caution. Alex would surely not forgive me for that. At least, I read as much in her eyes.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

I check on the wound made by the security guard. It is not deep.

"I'm fine," she smiles, smacking away my hand, "Just drive you numpty!"

With assurance I run to the driver's side as a few stray tourists break free from Tom's onslaught and come running in our direction bearing whatever weapons they have been able to find; wind-screen wipers, a metal traffic blocker, an umbrella, handbags being swung like a nun-chucks. I slide into the seat and jam the key in the ignition. The car's gear grind, _Rhutt-tut-tu-tu-tu..._

"Come on!" I curse.

The gears grind again, one of the tourists comes upon us, bringing the traffic blocker down upon the bonnet with a hefty thud. The back wheels bounce dramatically. I turn the key again, "Come ON!"

It grinds. Of course, in a perfect world, still under our control, my car would start. In a world no longer our play ground, my car behaves as it would in the real world. It ceases to fucking work!

_Thud!_ The umbrella spike comes down on my windscreen. it cracks. Alex jumps, she shrieks, holding herself back into the chair. "Try again!" she screams. Holding her bloodied scalp with pain.

"Shit!" I mutter. I push the key again, "Come on you stupid - old - "

_Rhutt-tut-tu-tu-tu...Vrrrroom_

It starts! Thank all that is good! It starts!

"Floor it!" Alex insists. I hesitate. Surely she knows I will hit a few people if I move now. I take one glance at her, to check that she understands, that she condones such an action.

It seems Alex, ours, mine, or otherwise, does.

Another tourist with a bollard wielded above his head approaches. "Seriously, Hal, pedal to the -"

I push my foot to the floor with a screech.


	36. Mitigation initiation

**Chapter 37 - Mitigation initiation**

Presence. That was the word!

Colette had found herself bewildered for a moment, so much so that she had lost grasp of a language she had been speaking for over a century. She found herself struggling for a word to describe Ms Grace Stoker. Then it came to her.

Presence.

Even Colette feels submissive, and it is not the cage that is making her feel that way. Grace's poise, her calm expression, her clothes, they all scream 'my time is money and you can't afford much so get on with it'. Colette used to say the same about _her_ time too, but she doubts _this _woman has ever had to use her body to get what she wants. It is quite unsettling to think that power can be achieved so easily and at such small personal cost, if a little impressive.

Having failed in her attempts at seduction, with Rook, Colette can't help but feel a little jealous of their guest.

All Grace has done is walk into the room and Rook's slender chops lit up. The minute this vampire entered he turned into a simpering fool. For a man who so clearly finds vampires a deplorable waste of flesh, it is unnerving. He hunches slightly in his grey suit like a sycophant, but tries to standing as tall as he can to compensate.

"Ms Stoker, delighted to meet you, finally. Allow me to intro -"

Grace cuts him off politely with a soft Welsh drawl, "Dominic, yes, yes. A pleasure, I'm sure."

Rook fumbles to shake the hand she proffers, grinning with boyish enthusiasm.

_Dominic_? Colette thinks to herself as she watches the outwardly awkward exchange. _Average_ _name, average man, strange taste in women, weird job_. Although distracted by the papers still scattered over the floor around her, she can't help but be vaguely amused and wary of Rook's rapid change of mood. From cruel interrogator to welcoming host in a minute flat.

"And this is?" Grace asks, moving towards Colette with conviction. Colette tries to tidy her appearance. She is acutely aware that there is no inherent sense of camaraderie where her species are concerned. At first, when she had realised Grace was a vampire, Colette thought that maybe she had been sent to have her released. She knows that in reality she is more likely to want her dead.

"Ah, yes, this is Colette Molyneux. She is presently helping us with our enquiries." Rook follows behind Grace. For the first time he looks at Colette as if she is a living being, even if technically she is not. He holds his creepily jovial smile on his face.

"Helping with your enquiries?" Colette frowns. She pulls herself up from the floor shakily. "Prisoner, more like."

Rook's smile is undisturbed but his eyes narrow threateningly at her tone, as if she were some animal that had just defecated on the floor in front of the Queen. Truthfully Colette hardly cares, and neither, it seems, does Grace.

Ms Stoker does not react. Not in the slightest. She smiles, emptily, and slides a perfectly manicured hand through the bars for Colette to shake. The vampire seductress does so with caution.

Grace's handshake is firm, controlled, and brief, she looks Colette in the eyes like a pro and barely blinks. "Pleased to meet you, Colette. My names is Grace Stoker. You can call me _Ms _Stoker. That goes for you to Dominic, I don't go in for all these informalisms that seem to be the rage these days."

Colette nods, respectfully, hoping that _Ms _Stoker would recognise that there was no reason for Colette to be held captive, that she is no threat. _Not to __**her **__anyway,_ Colette thinks, _Rook is a different matter. _Right now she would like nothing better than to latch onto Rook's neck and drown her sorrows! Though she suspects his blood is watery, like weak fish broth. She tries not to dart her glance to his throat as she acknowledges the other woman, "Bonjour," Colette nods, retrieving her hand, "Madam."

Why does she feel as if she is being interviewed, or somehow tested to see if she is 'up to snuff'? Colette smiles smugly at her captor, amused that for all the bowing and scraping the man is practically doing, it was she who received the warmer reception. She feels oddly as if she has won something, but stops herself from gloating, catching her behaviour, why does it matter? Vampire or not, she should not care what this woman thinks of her. Not really.

Grace is making no moves to rescue Colette at all. Nothing suggests that this is anything more than a casual visit that might has only paused the game she and Rook had been playing.

The realisation of this leaves Colette mute. The flicker of hope, that had initially danced down her svelte back, like a warm bead of sweat, turns cold.

Suddenly Colette, still reeling from the revelations during her recent and rather raw interrogation, is not sure that she gives a damn what will happen to her. Or at least, that is what she tells herself as Ms Stoker moves away politely. She works the room as if it is a vast office. It is as if the bars of the cell do not exist at all, as if they are not in some shit hole, half dark, half insipidly lit, and mostly damp. Colette's initial awe begins to sour into resentment. On top of everything that has happened, finding out the truth about Belinda, the beginning of the Apocalypse, The Devil, Izzy, being captured, and now, _now_, here is a vampire strolling in as though she owns the place! What makes _her_ so special!

"Now," Ms Stoker puts her handbag on the table as her previous platitudes fall into seriousness. She turns to Rook, "the situation with your department? Has it been resolved yet? I take it the investment you so begrudgingly sought is still required?"

So that was it...Colette smirked. _Money. Grace is money. _In Colette's experience, money always had that effect on men, even if it came in a skirt, or in the hands of their most hated enemy.

"Ah, yes, well, I'm delighted to tell you that as of this morning we are back up and running." Rook beams, clearly very pleased with himself. _Never mind the approaching Apocalypse, apart from that everything's just peachy_, Colette thinks, rolling her eyes as she watches the pair through the bars, she can hear the incoming 'but' like a claxon.

"Wonderful," Ms Stoker smiles politely. "And our other venture?"

"Indeed, we're well on track for -" Rook starts but is interrupted by a mechanical beep.

Ms Stoker's attention snaps to her purse. She reaches inside and pulls out a small black device, pressing buttons without a thought for Rook, who falls silent. He folds his hands neatly behind his back, and waits, rocking a little on his heels and trying not to look at Colette who leans herself up against the bars with amusement at this little theatre. He seems to be working hard to put across the image that he not at all concerned that he has been interrupted by a piece of technology. Colette grins. He clearly is.

Soon, with a smile, Grace returns the device back into her bag and looks at Rook expectantly.

Rook picks up where he left off, "As I was saying, we are on track for the deal to progress as planned. Please accept my most -"

Again the device in Grace's bag beeps. Again she retrieves it, with total disregard for Rook. Again Rook falls silent and waits patiently. This time Ms Stoker takes the time to write something in a small, leather-bound notebook before returning her attention to him.

Colette can't help but marvel at the woman again, and the hold she has over him without seeming to really try at all. She tries to suck it all in, if she ends up as dust she is only glad she has had the oportunity to see her tormentor humiliated like this. If she end up locked away for centuries, it is this moment she will hold on to in order to smile in the darkness.

" - My most sincere apologies," Rook finishes without losing his smile.

Colette tries not to stare.

Ms Stoker continues, "Your apologies are all well and good, Dominic, but they're worthless to me. What I require is assurance that nothing of the sort will happen again. I cannot have my time wasted and if this is going to work I can't have any hiccups with your department's throughput. There are other options for us you know, options I am sure would not be considered human-friendly. I would rather not go there."

Rook brings forth his most sincere and sycophantic of faces, his smile only now moulding into something that shows how serious he is capable of being. "Of course, Ms Stoker, I understand fully. I do offer my honest assurances, it was only a slight hiccup. The Department is stable again for the long-run."

"En dehors de l'apocalypse vous bouffon" Colette mutters under her breath.

Rook shoots a glare her way again, obviously understanding her French well enough to catch her meaning, though again Ms Stoker pays her no heed.

"So, with that in mind, do you have something for me, Dominic?" Grace asks, less a question, more an expectation. Rook's face falls slightly, his smile becoming forced.

"I... No I'm afraid not."

"You don't?" One of Grace's fine, plucked eyebrows raises, ever so slightly. Colette supposes that in this woman's unflappable persona, this small movement is what passes for surprise. "Well. That _is_ disappointing," she sighs.

Rook is instantaneous with his platitudes. he pushes his hands together apologetically.

"But it is only a brief set-back! I promise you! As I said in my emails to your assistant, The Archive was briefly in jeopardy, only put back on its feet this morning. Our supplies are temporarily depleted at the moment, but we will be replenishing stock immediately. The scheme will be in place again in no time."

The other vampire stands still poised, but clearly dissatisfied despite his platitudes during which she had whipped out her mobile again, and had absently began scanning through it. When Rook had finished she was tapping keys, quite obviously bored of his excuses.

He continues, despite this, to desperately win her favour again. "I know that this isn't the way you like to do business, Ms Stoker, and believe me neither do I, but there are mitigating circumstances, you must..." His voice has sped up. He has also gone up a pitch in his tone.

Grace simply ignores him until he runs out of air and confidence. An awkward silence lands in between them.

Eventually she puts her phone away, and sighs, "I'm sorry to say that you've let me down Dominic, really, you have. You and your department showed so much promise, but never mind that. What are they?" she points one long talon at the papers scattered by Grace's feet.

Rook's jaw flaps open. He is clearly taken aback. For a moment, he is silenced, his glassy blue eyes searching Ms Stoker's, for any hint of a reason why she would be concerned with such a minute detail.

Colette too is surprised. She hadn't thought Grace had paid much attention to her. It seems she may have been wrong.

"I'm sorry, the...the documents?" Rook asked with confusion.

Grace waited serenely, patiently, for him to gather her meaning. She waited until the disappointment at her having to repeat herself became profound.

"Yes, Dominic, the documents."

The way she says his name, it's as if she is chastising an ignorant child.

Rook flounders, his speech staccato and nervous, "Just ...just a file...on a person of interest." He searches for, and finds, a false bravado, "As I said, Colette is helping us with our enquiries."

Grace glances at the papers, and Colette could have sworn it was the first time she had done so since she entered the room. "Dominic, before we finish our business, you're going to tell me what it is your Department wants with Belinda Weaver."

Colette huffs out a laugh through her shock. She isn't sure why she is surprised. Apparently the world, his wife and their dog knows Belinda, one more person shouldn't make a difference. She wonders briefly if she is suffering some sort of delusion, or perhaps a particularly stubborn nightmare. Little chance of that, but a girl can hope.

She notices that Grace is watching her, a small smile upon her lips.

"I take it you know Ms Weaver," Graces asks sedately.

"I did, a long time ago."

"And how did you know her exactly?"

Colette thinks carefully before answering. "I helped her," she replies with a shrug, as if it were nothing.

Grace's smile widens slightly. There is a genuine warmth to it that Colette had not expected. It is the first natural moment that has passed over Grace's poised features.

"She trusted you."

"Yes, Ms Stoker, it would seem she did."

"Then you were very lucky."

Rook, whose attention has been bouncing between the women as if he were watching a tennis match, interrupts, "Allow me to explain."

Grace would clearly rather he hadn't spoken. He fails to realise this, and continues with enthusiasm, "When I say Colette is _helping _us, what I mean is that she is merely providing information on Miss Weaver. Information, which I believe, may be of some significant importance. You may not be aware about what is happenin outside, Ms Stoker."

Grace waits, silently, as Rook pauses for effect. His gesticulations posture above, to what Colette presumes is the world. Grace clearly understands everything and is no more behind the curve with her news than she ought to be, but she does nothing. Rook takes her silence, it seems, as if he is not making himself clear, "Ms Weaver, we believe had some scheme that was relevant to the current situation outside. You see, it appears that - "

Grace shakes her head slightly and holds up a finger, stopping him again. She retrieves the small device from her purse again smoothly, tapping a few buttons and holding it up to her ear.

"I am well aware of the present situation, Dominic," says Grace with a sigh as the phone rings.

Colette can hear the faint ring on the other end as the call connects.

"All I asked of you was one thing."

Rook waits. He seems to be shrinking. His shoulders are hunching inwards.

"Had you done that one thing, I would not have to enact my Apocalypse mitigation strategies, which are not without considerable cost in the short run. It will make everything a lot harder." She tuts to herself and then looks at Rook with admonishment, as though he should have known this fact all along.

Rook struggles for words. When it looks as though he might have found something to say it is too late, Grace's finger is pushed up into the air like an antenna, halting all conversation. The person on the other line answers the call before he can say much other than an astonished: "A - Apocalypse mitigation strategies?"

Grace paces calmly towards the door, opens it and steps into the corridor.

"Trevelyan," she says, "I need you to bring me the item." She pauses and turns back to Rook, all business and stony faced determination. "We're going to need to pay a visit to my bank. You're coming, Dominic, and you'll bring Ms Molyneux if you know what's good for you."

Colette catches her eye, as Grace nods towards her, to indicate to Rook that her presence is required for whatever this apocalypse mitigation entails. She can't help but feel reassured by the woman's demeanor, by her surety that her scheme is going to work, and that this too may have something to do with Belinda. She knows that she should be terrified, should want to escape or refuse to help, but she has come this far, has been involved for this long. She might as well see this through to its conclusion. Not that she feels she has much choice in the matter.

Rook looks over at Colette with a pale, deathly concerned expression as Ms Stoker leads the way. He adjusts his tie. He buttons his jacket. His hands are shaking.

Colette can already almost feel Rook's skin piercing beneath her fangs, his tangy, slick, but decidedly average blood sliding down her throat in gulps. Her stomach flutters in response. Her mouth waters with anticipation.

* * *

**A/N: Continued work with Ms Katy Newt on this. Thanks Ms N.**


	37. Carpe Diem

**Chapter 37 - Carpe Diem**

As it turns out, driving through Cardiff in my old mercedes is no safer than running or walking. Everything seems to be turning against us, including my old car.

All we need to do is get to Barry in one piece, once safe in our house we can at least board ourselves in and move to the second, less palatable part of the plan. Of course, we could do _that _here, now, but I feel the need to put it off until Tom has rejoined us.

The way that the other commuters on the Barry road are driving we may end up dead before we get there!

As soon the other drivers see us, they also become weapon-wielding fiends. Their attacks are much worse than those without cars. If my poor old car gets up to any kind of speed, which is itself a feat that is hard to accomplish, the back of my car is rammed or we are hit from the side.

We are only lucky that the peaceful A-roads that take us back to Barry are not overly populated even on the most popular of occasions, if this were the motorway we would have been overturned by now. Nevertheless, a normally short journey has become nightmarish quickly.

With the engine giving out, stalling, and struggling; with constant attacks from those with legs, bikes, cars, trucks, even scooters; with exhaustion, with indigestion, Alex's head wound, and with all the other human accoutrement which I had forgotten, it has taken us several hours to get even as far as we have.

Battling other drivers is one thing, having to battle my own beloved car is something different. Throughout the entire journey I swore that if I did nothing else in this world it would be to gain control over a vehicle that now has a mind of its own! Even once it hits a good speed it stops in the middle box junctions, pumps smoke from under the bonnet to obscure my vision, one tyre blows. Finally the brakes fail and then the whole thing ceases to work near Cadoxton. We are a good two miles from home when the nearby crowd of teens, families and fast-food workers at the drive-thru, who had seemed perfectly happy to go about their lives until they saw us, begin to descend upon my car with abandon.

"Give me strength!" I smack at the wheel and pull at my damp hair.

Alex is even less calm. She kicks at the passenger well repeatedly, with exasperation,"I swear they are trying to kill us!"

My poor car is shaken upon its' axles by the crowd as I try the key in the ignition repeatedly again.

In a huff she unclips her seatbelt and reaches over for mine.

"What are you doing?" I snap pulling it back

"I'm sorry, you think it's safe in here!"

Fists pound upon the metalwork.

"Safer than out there," I say and clipping the buckle back in place, "They don't want us dead."

"Could have fooled me!"

"If they wanted us dead we would no longer be alive," I tell her, "They are stalling for time. If anything they probably want to stop us from killing _ourselves_."

"Imsorrywhat!" Alex froths in my general direction. I try to remain calm.

"Death, I'm assuming, is our only route to reality."

"You're shitting me? You're actually shitting me."

I remain with my eyes locked on hers, resolute. She pouts, blinks, shakes her head, screws up her elfin features and then rolls her eyes and sighs, "You're not shitting me." She throws her arms up in the air, "I knew I should've had dessert. I knew it!"

_Bang! _One of the tyres gets popped.

"It's all I can think of, but it's a risk I am not yet sure I am willing to take, yet."

"Are you sure they're not trying to kill us?"

I hesitate, trying the key in the ignition again. "Fairly sure." The car refuses to move.

"Aye, well they're giving it a bloody good go. Come on!" she yells, grabbing for the handle and throwing herself out the car.

"Where are you going?!" I yell, as if I have any means of calling her back in that she would pay heed to. Of course, she does not. I sigh, unclip my belt, pull the keys from the ignition and follow. As I open the door of the car, with difficulty, I throw a few of the rabid Cadoxtonites towards the pavement, it gives me a clear enough window to head after Alex.

Alex is half way down the street already. It's a two mile run! Not much, but nonetheless we are both tired. She has tossed her jacket aside and in between bursts she is taking out commuters with aplomb. I try not to become distracted with pride. My jacket comes off too. I throw it in the direction of a shambling old gent and head in her direction.

"Come on, slow coach," she grins, bouncing on her heels like a hyperactive puppy. "Race you!"

I smile, from ear to ear, and we're off. Side by side. Feet hitting tarmac in the rain. We're out of breath, out hearts working painfully against the stitch that we both get in our sides after the first kilometre. Alex is red-faced, being that she is less used to exercise than I am, but she holds her own. There are few people who attack on our journey, though an occasional car causes concern, and at one point forces us to detour through a number of suburban gardens. It just becomes a fun adventure.

When we reach the hill that leads us up towards the B&B we are so tired out neither of us can form words, only pant for breath as we lean on our thighs for air.

"Shall...we...?" Alex coughs through her tired breaths.

"After you," I smile.

"Seriously, you ...can...give ….the gentleman thing...a rest..."

I laugh, coughing too, shrug and get the jump on her. I'm a few feet away before she strikes into action. "You shit!" I hear her call, but I am already halfway there. I turn to look back, slowing to a jog. She is practically on her knees. It's only fair to give her a sporting chance, yes? I run backwards.

"I said you should have joined me in my morning runs," I say.

"Your...morning...runs..." she stops, leans back on her hips to stretch out the ache and bring more air into her lungs. I do not complain about the view it affords me, giving me that promised glimpse of her 'perfect' bra underneath that wet, white shirt. "...are …THE...gayest..." and there her voice fails. I have stopped too, enchanted by the sight. "...THE..." she attempts to continue, standing upright again.

And then she goes! Like lightning, passing my by, fully aware that she had succeeded in distracting me from my endeavours. Her laughter is rich and fuelled with the heady abandon that only 'getting one over' on me sounded like from her lips. It is full-throated. It is worth losing for.

Nevertheless I won't let her know that I have lost so willingly. I follow at a pace, turning with a skid at the gateway and throwing myself up the steps where she is busy slipping the key into the lock.

She pushes the door open and we both fall inside.

Laughing. Warm. Soaked with sweat and rain and excitement. We lie on our backs upon the threshold, panting, laughing, smiling until the sound wears out, leaving one of those moments hanging there, from the ceiling, like a dusty spider-web I would (in earlier days) want to desperately to knock down.

Alex sighs, she turns to me. Her perfect face flushed and glowing.

I turn to my head upon the thin carpet to look at her. My warm cheek scratches against the pile. All those thoughts that have been plaguing me seem dull and grey all of a sudden. I don't care about the end of the world, the lies, the prospect of what awaits me, all I can think of is how perfect her face is in its imperfections. The way that her left eye is slightly smaller than her right, that she smiles with more muscles than any human being I have met, that she combs her hair over on that side to cover a small scar I had never noticed before, that her chin actually dimples, that she gets freckles when her cheeks flush...Right then. I would make a deal with the Devil to keep her, this moment, for eternity.

"Who knew kicking your ass could be so much fun," she says, lifting up her knee and pushing the door shut with her foot.

I swallow, my mouth is dry. I take a deep breath. My chest rises and falls with all that delicious oxygen. It seems so, so, very real. Could I foresake reality for this dream, if it means I could have _her? _What kind of man does that make me?

She does the same, her chest heaves with deep breaths. My eyes slip, unconsciously to that wet shirt of hers. I roll onto my side. She rolls onto her side. We are an inch away from each other. The moment still hangs there, teasing.

"If this really is a dream, if we have to wake up, if we have to save the world," she says, her breath warm and sweet on my lips, "Do you reckon you'll be like you are now, on the other side?"

I blink, "I can't say."

She pauses.

"Only," she sighs, "It seems a waste."

"What does?" I say, cautiously reaching for her arm. I pull her closer. My nose rests against hers. My forehead against her forehead. I can feel her heart beating through her shirt. It beats against my right hand side. Mine beats on the left.

"All this time, here, us, and we haven't..."

I kiss her.

I won't let us waste it.

Not this time.

She pulls away, "Can I keep you?" she says, softly. "Like this?"

I don't want to answer. I kiss her again, rolling her underneath me, holding her waist against mine as she reaches up towards me, her hands pulling at my trousers.

Whatever happens, I would be some kind of idiot if I didn't seize this moment for every second of its worth.

The bra, by the way, is indeed, spectacular. It is as perfect as perfect could be.


	38. The Corner Stone

**A/N: back after a short RL Summer hiatus. Thanks to Ms Saemay for her hard work collaborating on this chapter with me. Always a pleasure. **

* * *

**Chapter 38 - The Corner Stone**

Richard lost his sense of humour quickly as they traveled from the airport. Even Hettie had dropped into an uncharacteristic silence. The car passed wreck after ruin. The Cardiff motorists, attempting to escape from impending doom, appeared to have piled in on each other at top speed. Cars, lorries, bicycles, _anything_ with wheels had been compacted brutally into poles, buildings and each other. Both lanes of the eastbound motorway were filled to a standstill. To say the least, the motorway was a little backed up. Their car was the only one attempting to travel west.

Richard broke the silence, "This thing that Belinda left here. You said she left it for Hal, right?" His brain was beginning to piece things together, he'd get there in a minute, thought Hettie. Old as he was, Richard was never the smartest tack in the tin.

"Sort of," she smiled.

"Sort of? Hal's been shacked up in Southend for half a century with that boy-scout of a werewolf."

"Apparently he moved, or would move, I stopped paying attention. After what that turncoat did to Snow I wish I hadn't now. Anyway, when we got there though there was just Grace. She left it with her to give to him."

"And if it was so valuable why exactly did you let her do that?"

"Because of the whole future Fuckopalypse thing he kicked off."

"He what!"

"Oh yeah, didn't he tell you about that, honestly the man's a damned liability, I was glad whenever he went off on one, kept him out of trouble."

"He caused the Apocalypse?"

"Back last century, we had a good thing going, lots of carnage, a nice, healthy war to really help with the stress management, plus humans were easy pickings," she sighed reminiscently, "and then he had to go and spoil it by picking a fight with the soddin' anti-christ! All because he had a lob-on for some werewolf. Weren't you there for the Lady Catherine crap? 'The Apocalypse is bad for us all' my arse."

"It's not?"

"Looks like a lot of fun to me. Makes a change from just existing doesn't it? I mean you've lived long enough to realise immortality is boring as shit, right? At least Hal has minor schizophrenia to keep him entertained, I have to deal with the Disney channel."

"This!" he spat, and gestured past the steering column towards the carnage. "_This_ is the End of Days?"

"No shit, Sherlock," Hettie retorted without her usual venom. Her gaze was far away, watching the Apocalypse roll by. "I thought there would be more...I don't know...fireworks, or dancing. Like a One Direction Concert but with added death." She sighed. _Downside of the Apocalypse: significantly reduced chances of ripping out Harry Styles' intestines._

"So, the Cardinal was important?" asked Richard, "I don't understand how Belinda even got near him."

Hettie delivered a swift punch into his thigh, "Thick much? It was the key! That shit storm at the Guggenheim; it was all for that damn bloody key. And to get our attention...she needed an Old One for her plan to work."

Hettie trailed off with a mopey sigh and then scooted in her seat to face him. "I may as well spill. This mass suicide shit is gonna take like _f-o-r-ever_ to get through. Fucking lemmings," Hettie kicked off her Mary Janes, they ricocheted off the dashboard and landed in the footwell as she drew her stockinged feet onto the seat.

* * *

_April 17th , 1960_

With dual french braids, a collared sweater and a dark green pleated skirt, Hettie looked every bit the beloved little girl. The frilly buggy at her side and doll she clutched to her chest only enhanced the image.

"I can't fucking believe that wingnut talked me into this," Hettie muttered. She reached into the pram, pulled back the hood, and removed a lit cigarette.

The Rothmans cigarette she was puffing away on might blow her cover, but she didn't give a shit. Sharply dressed New Yorkers, starting their day, barely gave her a second glance. Hettie watched as the grandiose doors across the street opened for the first round of morning tourists. She took a long last drag before stubbing it out in the ashtray which sat on the plush quilt, concealed inside the pram.

She turned her gaze upward. The colossal bronze arms of Atlas held up the world and framed the tower of Rockefeller Centre. They dwarfed the small figure standing below.

"You've got the whole wide world in your hands there buddy," she sing-songed half to Atlas, and half to herself, "got any tips?" She asked.

Atlas said nothing. He didn't even shrug.

Hettie stuck out her tongue, "Much help you are, mate!" She brushed down her skirts and snaked a tiny fist into her pocket. She popped a red gum-ball into her pert little mouth and a glanced down Fifth Ave. The light changed. "So long sucker!" Hettie hollered.

With her Dolly tucked under arm, pushchair pushed forward, Hettie skipped across the street and onto the sanctified grounds of Saint Patrick's Cathedral.

She joined the back of the crowd that was being herded through the huge entrance. Slack jawed, throats temptingly stretched, the tourists turned their gazes towards the soaring spires overhead.

No one paid the little girl any mind whatsoever. _This was going to be child's play..._

"...bronze and weighing in at over 9,000 pounds. However, each door is crafted in such a way that they can be opened by one strong hand." The tour guide droned.

Hettie peered past the tour, towards the sanctuary at the far end of the building. She blew a good sized bubble. It popped. A woman, passing by, tutted. Hettie flipped the v's towards her.

According to Belinda, Hettie would have to access the inner recesses of the crypt, which Belinda could not get there herself of course. According to blueprints in the New York State Library, the inner recesses were accessed through the Sacricities.

"One of the newer additions to the building," said the tour guide, "the figures you see carved into the door's facade represent Saints as well as certain distinguished "blessed people." Hettie yawned. She hated history. She hated historians. They were generally flavourless. No, that wasn't true, they all tasted of tweed. Wet tweed.

Petting the thin hair of her doll for distraction, Hettie analysed the Nave beyond. Aisle after aisle of pews provided plenty of cover for someone of her size. There was an opening just past a rumpled looking man in atrociously plaid trousers.

The guide paused. Those on the tour that were well-to-do enough to possess hand-held cameras began snapping pictures, so Hettie hung back. "Gimme a break," she swore, impatiently tapping a saddle stitched shoe, "Fucking technology."

The guide led them past the threshold, gesturing wide with his arm,"In 1858 when construction b - "

"Blah blah blah" muttered Hettie.

"- allows for a wall structure that does not need to hold as much weight which is why St. Patrick's has famously larger windows."

The crowd filed inside and Hettie wheeled her little stroller behind, still unnoticed. She suppressed a shiver as she passed between the heavy doors. Just because she could go inside a church didn't mean she was supposed to _like _it. She shuffled along behind the group. Eyes and cameras were raised to the heavens once more, towards the impressive vaults above. Hettie reminded herself to be patient. She'd soon find out if Belinda had been pulling a fast one; then, so help her, she'd dust Linny and deal with the consequences. She was sure Snow would understand.

The tour would probably bring her right to where she needed to go. As long as gazes continued to be directed up, she could slip into the Crypt like a ghost.

"Seriously, Linny, you couldn't get a ghost to do this?" she whined, remembering Belinda's assertion that she and Isabella had 'Already tried that. Apparently ghosts can't touch it,' Linny had explained. Hettie swore.

"...the crowning work was the installation of the grand rose window over the portal, Charles Connick..."

Thirty humans suddenly turned in Hettie's her direction.

With haste, Hettie followed suit, and stared up at the window the tour guide seemed to think was worth all of their attention.

_It's nice glass, big whoop, well done. _Sometimes Hettie wondered what would happen if Humans took a minute to stop self-congratulating themselves for making pretty shit, maybe they would notice the monsters under the bed. She smiled, then again, that would sort of spoil the element of surprise.

Clicks and flashes flared and Hettie cringed. All it would take was one of these morons getting _artistic_ and photographing the little girl on their tour and she would have to do something unsavory!

"...Measuring a span of twenty-six feet in diameter..."

Hettie tuned out and calculated her distance to the exit. Belinda-fucking-Weaver and her little apocalypse saving schemes could shove it. She wasn't getting herself in a shitstorm on that woman's account! Not even for ...

The tour turned around, moving on. Hettie whirled to catch up.

What seemed like eons later, with her head stuffed full of even more historical factoids that she didn't give a Holy-Fuck about, Hettie's destination was finally in sight. The group was clustered around the marble Pieta, Hettie was pretending to admire the carved wooden screen between the Ambulatory and the High Altar.

All that separated Hettie from the polished marble steps leading down behind the Altar was one padded leather sash. _Easy._

"...in 1906 by William Ordway Partridge and inspired by Michelangelo's Pieta in St. Peter's Cathedral at the Vatican in Rome -"

Now was her chance! Approaching the sash, Hettie gave one last glance to make sure there were no Bishops or Altar boys hanging about. Her research with Belinda had paid off. Hettie pushed her buggy ahead and slipped under sash. Under the watchful eye of a singular carved cherub, Hettie stuffed her dolly into the folds of the the buggy, crossed the open space in a flash, lifted the pram up, with strength beyond her size, and darted down the steps with it.

The doorway at the bottom was open. Hettie set the pushchair down and paused, listening. She could hear the tour shuffling away, while ahead of her was silent as a crypt. Literally. If anyone else was down here, they were lost in prayer or study, or dead...or were soon to be the later. Still, it paid to be cautious. Hettie slipped off her shoes and stuffed those into the pram as well.

Now, to find which door the Cardinal's key fit!

Considering many of the doors weren't locked at all, it was easy for Hettie to figure out where she needed to go. Hettie retrieved the antique key from the string under her jumper. The lock was old and sticky. Just like the Cardinal himself probably had been. Hettie pulled on the handle and the key clicked home. She did a little dance and was inside, in less than two shakes of a lamb's tail.

The torch she pulled out of the buggy illuminated a dark room. It was as large as she expected but was fat with contents: a holy archive of crap and dumping ground for the archaic. Books and papers piled, shelves of scrolls, drawings and cases. Broken candelabra, moth eaten fabric and a few filing cabinets of old papers.

"Shit me solid," Hettie said, scratching her head. She swept the torch around the room. She was looking for a big bloody rock. How hard could it be?

Overhead, there was a bare bulb on a string. It was tempting, but she didn't want to risk the light attracting any undue attention, so, wIth a frustrated growl, she started rummaging. The torch end gripped in her teeth. By the time she found the corner-stone, buried under a rolled up pile of velvet, the bloody choir upstairs had started. She didn't have much time left. Hettie set the torch on a pile of bibles and squatted to lift out the stone.

"Urgh! This shit's actually heavy." It wouldn't move. "Couldn't put it on a trolley or anything could you boys?" She looked around for something she could use to pry it out with, Hettie elected for the velvet itself. She ripped a shred free and lassoed the rock. It took her awhile to tug it clear, through gritted teeth, and scuffed ankles. When she was done she caught a breather and listened. The choir upstairs was still in the Kyrie.

With the first job done Hettie returned to the pram and pulled out the quilt, scattering fag ash into the darkness. Wrapped inside, tightly wound in pink satin, was her more 'standard' key: 'Old pointy'. Rolling up her sleeves she did a few bends and stretches for good measure, then cocked her head to listen.

"Aria aria... blah blah blah," Hettie muttered.

The choir finally swelled into full voice. Hettie raised the pickaxe for the plunge!

"Come on Gloria!" she said, and brought the pickaxe down with all the power that gravity and her small arms would allow.

The hollow cavity of the cornerstone was quite easy to break through. After a couple good swings during the swells of _glorificamus te_ the recently dried plaster shattered, as if it was made of meringue_. _Dust spewed into the torch beam. Hettie coughed in the pumice cloud, shook herself off and retrieved the light. Waving her arm through the air she moved towards the cavity. Traditionally cornerstones, like this one, were hollow, and left open for public offerings, before being laid in the foundations. This stone had been removed from its position, Belinda had learned, on the Cardinal's orders, for a particular purpose...

Hettie had half expected it to be full of useless idols, trinkets, talismans, or coins, like the shit that got dumped in fountains by the foolish. She didn't expect Belinda's suspicions to be right.

There was nothing... nothing Hettie could say about the _something _that was most definitely there, most definitely not a trinket, nor a talisman, nor a coin, nor any kind of useless shit. Quite the opposite. She didn't know if it was the torch light, or nicotine withdrawal, but the _something_ inside seemed to glow.

She reached for her cigarettes. Took two out. Lit one, without taking her eyes off the wonderful little thing hidden inside the St Patrick's cornerstone. She smoked her cigarette down to the stub, silently, lit the other from the remains and, when that was done, waited a little while more. Just to savour the moment as she reached inside, slowly, scared for the first time in a long time about what would happen. She held it in her hands, and took a moment to pinch herself.

"Well shag me sideways and call me Mary," she said, and laughed. "Belinda Weaver, you bloody legend!"

Ten minutes later, as the choir finished their repertoire, a little girl rolled out of the Cathedral, with the Holy Grail stashed next to her Rothmans in the pram. She left them the Old Pointy in exchange.

* * *

Storm clouds rolled and rumbled overhead as Richard and Hettie began to walk their way through the deceased that littered Canon Street, all the way up to the doorway of Honolulu Heights.

"It's just a waste," sighed Richard, seeing all the blood drain into the gutter. "I don't see how you can think this is a good thing, Het."

Hettie shrugged, "Fair point." She skipped up the steps. "Maybe we can negotiate a food supply?"

"With the Devil? You know what they say about deals of that nature. They never seem to offer good returns on investment."

"Well we have something I'm sure he'll want. I had planned selling the thing to the highest bidder, but..." she shrugged. "I suppose money doesn't really matter any more...Does Armageddon even have a Stock Exchange?"

With that she knocked on the door.

.


	39. The Theory of Form

**Chapter 39: The Theory of Form**

"A - Double L - I - S - O - N"

Izzy stares, bemused, at the bespectacled girl before her. She is holding out her hand for Izzy to shake. Izzy takes a sideways glance at Tom, who is staring at Allison with two Ls as though she is the most exquisite thing on this planet. He is completely smitten. Itʼs rather sweet really, and such a contrast to the man who had singlehandedly beaten off a horde of minions only a few hours before. She can hardly believe he is the same person.

Thanks to Tom they had both walked away from the drone attack with only a few scratches and bruises. But since she had not suffered as much as a paper cut in over four centuries, those scratches and bruises feel a lot worse than broken bones. Once she had persuaded Tom that she definitely wasn't a minion, Tom had explained that there were no monsters in this world, they were human and so was everyone else.

"Human!" she had said, a little like it was a curse word.

"Yes, human."

"Everyone?"

"Yes, everyone, even Hal."

"Hal?"

"Look love, I don't mean to be rude or owt, but are you all there like?"

She had stood, agape. Could that explain the way he behaved towards her? The way he had looked at her; the distrust, the anger, the hatred. She hadnʼt expected it. Sheʼd expected tears and maybe even a hug. But no, this hurt more than any of her war wounds from the battle of the drones. It stung.

After they had escaped Izzy had wanted to go and find Hal, to make him believe that she wasnʼt a trick but Tom had had other plans, leaving her in a quandary.

"Do what you want, love," he said, lumping off in the other direction, "but I'm off to find out what a very nice woman knows about what's going on with Alex."

"There's something wrong with Alex?"

Tom paused, looked Izzy up and down and shrugged. His large eyes narrowed with distrust.

Putting her concerns with Hal aside with great difficulty, and suspecting this had something to do with what she had seen in the Television Studio, Izzy hitched up the sleeves of her dress and sorted out her hair. "Then I'm coming too," she insisted.

Finally, for one moment, she felt as if she was getting somewhere, until she realised that there was something much more important that Tom had to do first, like visit his girlfriend in a local Travelodge, apparently.

They had arrived ten minutes ago and hadn't been raided by zombie people yet; though this made Izzy suspicious.

"So," Allison lisps, tripping over her tongue with enthusiasm, "cross referencing the records of both the WNO, with the guest lists of all the major hotel chains in the greater Cardiff area, I came up with a rather nifty little algorithm which allowed me to ascertain exactly which hotel she was staying at!" Allison puffs out her chest as if this makes any sense to either Tom or Izzy. They look back with equal bemusement. Allison sighs, "followed by a quick call to Lady Highcastle's agent, purporting with excellent subterfuge, I might add, to be from the hotel and - "

"Woah, woah, woah. Highcastle?" Izzy, whose mind has been wandering throughout Allisonʼs monologue, is suddenly dragged back to reality at the sound of that name. She looks from Allison to Tom then back again "but thatʼs... Youʼve been looking for Belindaʼs Mother?"

Tom stares at Izzy, clearly shocked that she is so well informed. After coming to terms with the fact that this is not suspicious, and pretty much everyone he has met has somehow bumped into their ex house-guest, his shoulders relax. "Yeah, I need to ask her about Alex, like."

"Well, where is she?"

"As I was trying to explain, her agent says she is leaving for London tomorrow. Cardiff Station, first train out," Allison says.

"What about her hotel?" Tom asks, "Let's just go there. I ain't plannin' on waitin', Allison, Hal's with Alex right now, and what if..." He pales.

Allison slaps one hand on Tom's bicep, and makes a face somewhere between understanding and affection, "Sorry, my brave warrior, she's not there, already checked out. I imagine she's laying low. Off the radar. Incommunicado. Hiding out..."

"Yes, Miss Thesaurus 2013, we get it," Izzy snaps at the girl scout.

"So, Troupers," Allison ignores the jibe, "I suggest we all get an early night." She bundles up a pile of blankets and shoves them into Izzyʼs arms. "Sorry, thereʼs only one bed, I wasnʼt expecting extra company. Youʼll be alright in the bathroom wonʼt you?" she grins.

"Er, thanks." Izzy peers into the pokey little en suite of Allisonʼs hotel room. "But whereʼs Tom going to... Oh." Her question is answered with one look at the pair of former werewolves, now making eyes at each other. "On second thoughts, never mind."

* * *

Izzy passes the night with her fingers, and half the Travelodge loo roll, inserted into her ears, until she is woken, rudely, by an aching back, thrumming ears and a pounding head. Shortly after, an overly chipper Allison, throws open the bathroom door. She asks her how she takes her tea, and which of the free biscuits Izzy would prefer. Izzy rolls over and uses all the swear words she knows to inform Allison that her wake-up call is not welcome. Having not actually slept in over 400 years, surely she deserves a lie in!

"Get up sleepy head," Allison insists with a happy jolly-hockeysticks lilt. She turns on the shower overhead, dowsing Izzy in cold water, "We've a Universe to save and Zombies to evade!"

"No one!" Izzy screams into the room, "no one _normal_, should ever be this enthusiastic about either of those two things!"

Finally the trio emerge into the dawn. One soppy, barely towel-dried Izzy, and two post-coital ex-werewolves with satisfied grins.

They leave the hotel before anyone is awake, just before sun-up, and sneak like ninja towards the station. Ducking in and out of doorways, alleys, behind bins, dodging trucks and any sound of humanity until they reach the station. Even this early the place is crawling with people, any one of which, Tom suggests, might go rabid if they see the trio.

The next few hours, hiding in a store cupboard at Costa, are spent debating how they might find, alert and meet Lady Highcastle in a building full of potential zombies.

"What about you?" Izzy asks Allison, after all cunning plans are agreed to be uncunning, mostly dangerous, and/or stupid.

"What _about _me_?_"

"Why aren't you a zombie?"

"Oi!" Tom hits Izzy in the shoulder.

Rubbing her arm, "I'm just saying: I know how _I_ got here, I know how _you _got here. I don't know how _she _got here. She's like them, isn't she?"

Tom eyes Allison with sudden concern, getting Izzy's point.

Allison pounces into debate mode like a pro, "Well, true, one could philosophically argue that I may be some form of simulācrum, but I would argue that I clearly have some form of free-will, given that I have not yet attempted to kill anyone. As Plato's Theory of Forms suggests," she coughs lightly, "The true essence of an object is not what we perceive with our senses, but rather its quality."

"She's definitely Allison," Tom grins.

"Okay, but if you're not part of the real world then -"

"I still maintain that this world is quite real," Allison debates again, interrupting politely with a smug smile, "We were talking about this last night, weren't we Tom, what _is_ real. What we experience in our brains is only a comprehensive illusion caused by the senses, it is the collective experience which makes us perceive it as real as opposed to a dream. This is a collective experience, you can't deny that. Ergo, this world is real, have you considered that what _you _may think is real could, in fact, be the dream."

"You make my head hurt," says Izzy, "Are you going to help or not?"

Allison sighs, "So, I understand, you are implying that: one, you and Tom here come from some alternative reality. Two, this explains why the people of this world are attacking you?"

"Yes."

"It's a fair hypothesis I suppose. Following this, your theory is that; one, as I don't come from this reality of yours, that, two, I will not suffer the same type of attack?"

"Yes."

Allison thinks.

"It's a risky hypothesis," she says, finally. "If you are wrong then if I step outside this room, I too may be exposed to some form of physical attack!"

Izzy smiles, she considers this an upside. "It's better than any other idea we've had."

"I still say we ambush the announcement desk and tell Lady Highcastle to meet us somewhere," Tom adds flatly.

"Yes, because announcing to a world of people, who want to kill us, where they can find us is sooo smart," Izzy snaps.

Tom thumps her again.

"Hey!"

Allison raises her finger in the cramped space. "I'll do it," she says, bravely. "Seriously though, Tom, as much as I love you, next time you call me up out of the blue and invite me to the Opera can we not end up involving me in a supernatural plot? I've got exams coming up."

* * *

Armed with only her rape alarm and the picture of Lady Highcastle from the Opera programme, Allison has been gone for nearly thirty minutes. Tom started to worry after thirty seconds, "She should be back by now," he flaps, every few minutes, pacing.

"She'll be fine," Izzy insists, repeatedly.

"I should go 'elp."

"You will do no such thing, stay right where you are young man!"

When the bickering subsides, Tom passes the time by burying his anxiety in his appetite. He has eaten every muffin in the cold store, most of the biscotti, and a dubious looking sandwich. The cafe is still closed up, luckily, and through the buckled lock of the jimmied door Izzy has been trying, with difficulty, to see whether anyone is coming.

Luckily, before Tom starts eating the condiments, Izzy sees Allison approach with beautiful older woman in tow. Belinda's mother seems a little more tired than she would like the world to see. Izzy opens the cupboard door and ushers the pair inside as Tom jumps to his feet. He knocks his head on a cupboard shelf and showers the floor with the open, half empty sugar packets he had been guzzling. They shower the floor in crystals. He wipes off his hand and grins at Lady Highcastle, blushing.

"L- Lady...your 'Ighness...majesty, erm…" Tom stutters, seemingly unsure whether to bow, or courtsey, or neither, leaving him standing in a sort of peculiar squat.

Lady Highcastle smiles, "Please, Tom, Nicky will do just fine the title means literally nothing except to my agent who thinks it sounds impressive." She pulls him into a tight embrace, "I'm so glad you got the message, I didn't know what to do. Where's Hal?" She looks around the room.

"I - I..." Tom stutters in her busty grip.

"He's with Alex," Izzy explains, "I'm Lady Isabella Fiston, Izzy."

Lady Highcastle let's Tom go, shakes Izzy hand politely, and then paces in the small space as best she can. "Well... I suppose at least someone has their eye on her. That's good."

"What did you mean, in your note," Tom snatches the programme from Allison and frantically searches for the page, waving the note at Lady Highcastle. "'_Not your Alex_', you said. Is she in danger? Is Alex in trouble?"

"What about Hal?" Izzy snaps.

"No, no, Alex is fine. Sort of." Lady Highcastle sighed, and sat down on a box of coffee beans, "It's hard to explain. I need to take you to see my daughter, she can explain better than I can."  
"Belinda!" Tom and Izzy spit in unison. "She's alive?" again, their realisation, is oddly concurrent. "She's human?" they added.

"Who's Belinda?" Allison asks while Tom and Izzy are done talking over each other.

"My daughter, and yes, as alive and as human as any of us are," Lady Highcastle sighs, "She's in Bristol, I was going to stop off on my way. Though it's not safe. I'm being watched, I think. The strangest things have happened since she told me. I've feared for my life, convincing myself that what she told me was not true was the only way I could feel safe. I worried I was imagining things again...you do know I spent some time in an institution?" Tom, Allison and Izzy all nodded, it was a little awkward given that her health issues had once been meted out in the national press. "Well, exactly, I hadn't wanted to believe it, at risk of saying anything and being considered unwell again, until I saw you three, large as life. Hal, and you Tom, suddenly everything she said...I wondered if it was possibly true. If so…I had warn you, had to say…something. And here you are."

"Warn us, about Alex, like?"

"I really can't explain this well myself. I hardly believe it myself. Please, will you meet her?"

Izzy pulls on Tom's arm, "We need to go with her."

"But how, like? We go out there and we'll get mobbed."

Allison, bouncing on her heels, coughs politely. "If I may," she ahems, "I may just have a solution to that little problem."

* * *

They hid in the loos of the train for the entire journey after Allison smuggled Tom and Izzy aboard the 10.55 to London using the least glamourous travel method she could have suggested. Allison's wheelie case was hardly large, but given Izzy's petite size it was into this that she just about squeezed, once Allison had emptied most of the contents into one of the boxes in the Costa cupboard. Lady Highcastle had a giant trunk, which a porter had already been hired to collect and take onto the train. She threw away her expensive belongings with less reluctance than Allison, meaning Tom had probably a more comfortable ride than Izzy had. She spent the short, bumpy, commute into First class scrunched up with Allison's 'too valuable to throw away' text-books.

On the floor now, in the loos, Allison is wrapped up in Tom like he is a blanket as she flips through one of her books. Even the threat of an Apocalypse happening somewhere is not deterring her from her study. Tom looks down at her lovingly. All things considered, Izzy would have preferred being dead or being in purgatory. At least when faced with couples she could apparate herself someplace less saccharine.

"So you know Linny?" Tom asks.

"Huh?" Izzy sits up, and tries to make herself comfortable against the wall. "Yes. I got her out of purgatory, long story, the important bit is she's got something we need to send the Devil back to kingdom come, and she went and dusted herself before she told me what she'd done with it."

"Some kind of 'Grail', I presume," interjects Allison, looking up.

"I...how did you know?" Izzy shouts, jumping to her feet, hands on hips.

"It's obvious, isn't it?"

"How?!"

"Sorry, what?" adds Tom, confused as Allison stands to meet Izzy's glares.

"I presume in order to defeat any form of demonic overlord, whatever religion you do or do not subscribe to, the idea of an 'Holy Grail' is a sensible myth to hope has some truth to it. The _san gréal, _Christ's cup, the Singing Bowl...essentially an evolution of pagan myth about Death and Rebirth, amongst other theories," she adjusts her glasses, "Whatever you believe, the idea is it is a vessel or stone endowed with special powers."

"Like a magic cup or summit?" Tom translates, scratching his head, "Why would that...oh, you reckon 'cause of the ritual like?" Izzy guessed Tom had spilled everything. Pillow talk.

"Eeee-xactly," Allison pops with pride, folding her arms over her woolly jumper. "Though of course, it's a myth. Then again, so are werewolves. Did you friend find it?" she asks Izzy with an excited smile.

Izzy folds her arms and drops onto the loo seat with a sulk, "Yes, but it took a lot of work, and after all that she couldn't get to it, and I couldn't move it. She sort of...well, we fell out, we parted ways. I don't know what happened after that, but the Grail went missing, so I presume she found a way to get hold of it and then hid it."

"And then she died," Tom adds.

"And you guys went sleepy time," Izzy laughs.

"And the Devil took over the world?" Allison finishes, sincerely, "Personally, I think you're much better off here. But I have to admit I'm curious."

The train draws to a halt. When Allison falls from her feet, Tom catches her. They laugh, and Izzy rolls her eyes.

* * *

Travel off the train, at Bristol Temple Meads, was as difficult as getting on the train in the first place, but was curiously uneventful, even when Izzy gave up halfway and clambered out of Allison's big bag for air five minutes after they were lumbered into Lady Highcastle's private car. She was as surprised as Allison and the Lady were to find that the driver didn't immediately turn into an insane drone.

So they let Tom out too. They suppose that the epidemic of insanity was either centred on Barry or had petered out, since the trinity had not left yet, or perhaps because they had separated? Either way, Izzy had to admit this made everything easier. It was a theory that was supported by the fact that as soon as they arrived at St Jude's Hospital they were not set upon either.

"This has to be good, right?" she asks Tom, with hope. He seems less than convinced. If possible, Tom seems even more suspicious of the passers-by than before. Little old ladies in wheelchairs make him particularly cautious. He pulls Allison closer to him as they approach the visitors' entrance. He eyes up every injured, aching, coughing person in the reception as Lady Highcastle signs herself and her guests into the private residential ward. He gives all porters, nurses, doctors and receptionists evil eyes as they walk past them to the top floor. He shields the ladies in the lift, gallantly. He insists on interrogating the receptionist in front of the secure ward, until he is satisfied that Marjorie is in fact human, so are her three children, and that she is not under some demonic influence, and that her chocolate cake, on offer to visitors, is not poisoned. He only seems to rest when they are admitted inside. Nevertheless, throughout the entire journey Izzy feels that Tom has missed the point, whatever he asks, or does, these people _are _going to _seem _human, right up until He doesn't want them to be. She has a horrible feeling they are walking right into a trap.

At the end of the corridor there is a little bedroom overlooking the car park, Lady Highcastle leads them towards this. Izzy had long before realised that they were now locked safely behind the patrolled doors of a mental health ward. Behind the door by which they now stand, through the small reinforced glass window, they can just about see a young woman in the corner of the room, looking away, out of the window, sadly. She is sitting up in the bed, her knees pulled up to her chin, her bare toes curled around the soft linen, wriggling.

"_And you'll see here that Caroline is wearing a lovely little high street number in puce, which is really in s-." _the daytime television waffles annoyingly from the TV pinned to the ceiling behind them.

Lady Highcastle sighs, "I had a call, a few weeks ago now. They said they found her, almost dead, and recognised her. She had tried to take her own life. I couldn't believe she was even alive, but I recognised her straight away. It was a miracle. They insisted she stay here, for her own safety, but every day since I've had a call. " She reaches towards the handle. Her hand is shaking. She beckons the nurse over to unlock it and continues. "She's tried everything; one day she attempted to throw herself out of the window, four times; more than you can imagine she tried to dash her head apart; then there was the time with the plastic cup; and once she attacked a nurse and tried to use her keys as some kind of knife. We tried restraints, drugs, everything..." Lady Highcastle seems on the verge of tears, "I didn't want to lose her again, you have to understand, but she seemed committed to end her life. It was so hard to leave her here, you have to understand, after everything I went through."

Tom reaches out and takes her shoulder, trying to offer her some comfort.

The nurse unlocks the door. She is cautious with her keys. They all see the fresh scar in the woman's cheek, and wonder if it was somehow related.

"She finally lost it then?" Izzy sighs.

"No," Lady Highcastle admits, "I don't think she has. Eventually I decided to listen to her. I heard her out. And now, now that I've met you, I worry that she's probably more sane than any of us. It's just if she is, then I'm afraid of what it means."

She leads them inside. They are all nervous as they follow, stop and stare at the woman in the corner. All of them expect her to jump or scream or react someway.

The door closes.

Izzy stares at the woman at the window, who turns, slowly to look at them. Tom reaches out for Allison's hand and holds it. "Belinda?" he says, gently. "It's Tom, Tom McNair. Is it really you?"

Belinda laughs, and shakes her head. "Don't be a numpty, you idiot," she smiles, elated, "It's me..." she sighs, "It's Alex."

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for Ms Pigeon for kicking this one off and making sure I didn't break her OC.**


	40. Bad Blood

**Chapter 40 - Bad Blood**

Scratching his mustache, rubbing the back of his head, and taking off his little round glasses to rub them on the hem of his cardigan, Trevelyan realises it doesn't help. He has been dead long enough to know this is pointless, and also an unreal manifestation of worry, but he does it all the same. Habits are even harder to shake in the afterlife. He used to do this when pacing in his study, trying to fathom his way through all his research. He follows his little ritual again, unconsciously, as he tries to fathom his way around Grace's latest challenge. 'I need you to bring me the item,' she had said.

"Easier said than done," he muses, toying with his mustache again. He wonders if Grace knew that he wouldn't be able to lay his hands on the thing, if she had, surely she would have mentioned such an obstacle? Then again, he supposed he had been trusted with her protection this long because he was always succeeded with the impossible jobs.

He asked her once how she had hidden the item in the first place. Her answer was that her son had done the deed for her, she could not bring herself to touch it. It burned, she said. He did not ask any further questions. Her boys were a sore subject. Apart from that, in nearly fifty years of work for Grace Williams, the item was only mentioned twice. Once when she told him about it, in 1980. They second time when she told him where it was hidden, one year ago, when the three supernaturals applied to rent the property.

"Will it be safe?" Trevelyan had asked.

"Safer than it has ever been," Grace explained.

Her son kept toy soldiers when he was a boy. He put them in a tin chocolate box. His father did not like him playing with them in the sitting room, so her son used to hid the box up the chimney, on a little shelf behind the flue. That, Grace had told him, was where he would find it.

He rubs his mustache. He paws the back of his head. He cleans his glasses. He stares at the fireplace. "Nothing is impossible, George," he says, remembering his father's advice from when he was a little boy. He remembers the day an owl flew down one of the old chimneys. It got stuck, asphyxiating in the smoke, screaming and squawking and flapping. backing up the hall with soot. His father dislodged it with a broom, killing the poor thing after he freed it out of mercy.

Trevelyan grabs a broom.

* * *

Colette admits to herself, with surprise, that she is getting extremely bored of handcuffs. Then again, they had never been used to protect her from snacking on someone else's safety before.

If he had an ounce of sense, Rook would have not sat next to her in the car, but he had. Colette supposes he had at least two reasons for this. The first: Grace, clearly in charge, was sitting in the front seat beside her driver. The second: he was too clever and too experienced to allow Colette out of his sight even for a second.

He slid into the back before they left the Archive and insisted she cuffed herself to the door handle, as she was still 'technically' in his custody. Grace had laughed, and Colette was not sure if this was directed at them at all.

No snack for Colette then, not yet.

She watches him. The man winds down the window awkwardly and scoots a little further away, nearer to the air, which is bitter. _Patience is a virtue_, Colette thinks. She will see it through to the end, if only because she can't be sure what Grace would do if she drained the grey suited elf. She feels as if she is in Grace's favour, for now, and would like to stay there.

Rook's sallow neck, however, is a tempting lure. His suit jacket has left a faint red mark where it has rubbed his collar, there is a little stretch of translucent blonde hairs along his jawline. He must have missed them shaving. His pulse point throbs. Her bottom lip twitches. When he clears his throat, his adam's apple bobs.

"Ms Molyneux?" he says, slowly, having noted her attention.

Her eyes flick up, and she catches his glance without a hint of sheepishness. Her look says, _I will have you_, but has nothing to do with any sexual urges, though it could be mistaken.

Rook has caught her true meaning and is not amused. They stare each other down until Grace breaks the tension.

"We'll be stopping off at my bank. I need to pick something up," she explains.

_Of all the things to do in the middle of_ _the Apocolypse, _Colette thinks.

"Of course," Rook trills with a sycophantic grin.

Colette stares through her window. Avoiding the lure of Rook's neck, her mute melancholy returns. She is still quietly reeling. The bodies and the wreckage roll by outside. The Apocalypse seems surprisingly bleak, she had expected a bombastic and hellish revolution. It is not that. It is an insidious, hostile takeover. A quiet victory. There is no battle being waged, only the littered no-man's land of a war already won. Nevertheless, she hardly sees any of it. The whole world could go to hell, she sighed, she was already there.

The car stops in Cardiff city centre. It pulls up to the kerb outside a stone building, sandwiched between an arcade and a sports bar. Rook leans to unlock the handcuffs, cautiously, as though she is a wild animal. She supposes he is not wrong.

"No funny business, Ms Molyneux," he says.

Colette sighs as Grace steps out, over a long stream of blood, flowing along the gutter. She seems to act as if it wasn't even there. Unfortunately Colette cannot ignore it. As soon as the driver opens her door for her, the smell overwhelms her. She coughs, and has to blink her eyes back to normal. She feels her fangs start to descend. Less than a day or so has passed since her last meal, usually she can control her thirst well, but today is brings the bloodlust. The amount of blood in the air is too much. She cannot help but look at her surroundings properly for the first time since they left the Archive.

Seven corpses lie at the foot of the building, their limbs spread at sickening angles. One man rests over a pair of benches bent over backwards, his spine obviously shattered in multiple licks her lips as the blood drips from a gash at his temple. Blood has splattered far and wide, indicating the manner of their deaths from a great height. Colette looks up, and then down the street. It is silent. Eerie.

She turns towards Grace who seems to watch her with something between pity and impatience.

"Keep it together, dear," says Grace, "We are more than our urges."

The next thing she knows, Rook's hand is wrapped around her arm and she is being led her towards the building. She is outraged, for a moment, before she sees his free hand lodged in his inside jacket pocket. She remembers the wooden cross that he keeps there and decides, begrudgingly, to hold her protests.

The driver waits by the car as Rook handcuffs her hands behind her back.

"That really isn't necessary, you know," she lies.

"You're a dangerous woman, Ms Molyneux."

"Me? Because I'm a vampire? What does that make _her_?" she asks, highlighting his hypocrisy.

Rook looks to Grace, "Grace is..." he considers his every word carefully, "a necessary evil. For the Greater Good."

"How's that working for you?" Colette asks, indicating the death around them, "Vous pensez que cela est 'Bon'? "

"Non," Rook says.

Grace raps at the door, sighing at the lack of answer. She fishes a key-fob from her purse, snapping it shut as she flashes the fob at the panel beside the door. It beeps. The lock sounds heavy and worn, but it gives easily. Grace strides into the building purposefully. Rook, with Colette in tow, follows her through a small corridor and finally into the modern atrium of a building behind the dull shop fronts. The atrium is long and high, with great windows above, showering the space in light. The clouds roll blackly above them. Inside the temperature is perfectly regulated. The light is clean. She feels oddly protected from the hell outside.

Grace calls a lift, which arrives speedily. Colette assumes this is because no one else in the building is using it, what with them all seemingly dead. She is amused at Rook's brief hesitation before entering a small space with two vampires. They descend, the plinking of musac, vaguely reminiscent of the drab Customs, barely dulls the noise of Rook's quickening heartbeat as the door shuts. Colette tries her best to block out the pestering thud, the subtle whoosh of his blood pumping, the smell of salty skin behind his surprisingly pleasant aftershave. _Bing!_

The doors open again before it becomes impossible for her to control herself. Grace leads them past dozens of heavy metal doors piercing the bland walls. The whole place smells of disinfectant. _Funny bank,_ Colette wonders, amused at how much this establishment resembles an upmarket version of Purgatory.

The clip clop of heels bounce off the walls, along with Rook's flat footed shuffle, until Grace turns at a junction in the corridor, leading them into another where she stops and flashes her fob again at a door labelled "53949".This subterranean vault seems surprisingly vast given the dimensions of the building above. Whatever this place is, and whatever their purpose for being there, Colette has had quite enough of corridors to last her a lifetime. Or three, in her case.

Grace tugs the door open with a firm pull on its large bar mechanism, the stale, cold, air inside exhales from a vaccum. She steps inside just as casually as ever. Rook looks at Colette. His expression seems to question whether they should follow. Colette shrugs, rolling her eyes.

They follow, and Colatte is so busy glowering at him that it takes a few moments for her to feel the chill in the room they enter and realise what it is that is stored there. She inhales sharply. Stopping at the doorway buy pulling hard against the handcuffs. Rook turns to scold her but stops when he sees the look on her face. Half wonder, half fear.

Around them, in the large cold store, stretching at least fifty feet into the distance, are row upon row of metal shelves. Each is packed to the rafters with bags of blood. Grace disappears down the corridor, looking for something, counting the shelves.

Colette remains transfixed by the bags of food. She tries not to admit that she is thankful he has neither left her alone nor drawn her further inside. She is well aware that his mercy is because he is worrying for his neck, rather than any kindness. Out of the corner of her eye she sees his free hand reach into his jacket pocket, protectively until Grace returns minutes later with a bag of blood. She tucks it into her purse and marches past them, back into the corridor. "Off we go then."

Colette looks at Rook. Rook looks at Colette. "Ladies first," says Rook, with a smile.

Grace locks the door and without even looking at either of her companions, she speaks. "You're looking peaky Colette, are you quite alright?"

"Yes, fine thank you."

"Good. I understand you need to feed but please don't snack on Dominic, I need him," Grace says leading them back to the lift.

"I wouldn't dream of it," Colette says as Rook yanks her forward again.

* * *

_Thud!_

The item clatters onto the floor from where it had been lodged on the shelf. It is black with soot. It seems strangely utilitarian, just a bowl. Hardly as magnificent as the stories would claim and yet Trevelyan can feel its draw. If the stories are to be true the bloodshed, anguish, war, horror and awe that this little cup had inspired were the truly magnificent thing. To think, all that death, over a dusty old thing like that. Then again, as a historian, if there was one thing Trevelyan knew it was that often the smallest and most innocent of things that were held up as excuses for the Hell humanity wrought on itself. Why not a piece of dishware? It probably wasn't even mystical or holy at all...

He reaches for it, casually. His hand passes straight through it, which, he has to admit, is disconcerting. He hates being reminded that he is dead.

He stares at it. He thumbs his mustache. He rubs the back of his neck. He cleans his glasses and decides to look for a plastic bag to scoop it up in, or a bucket. he wonders if he can apparate the thing once he has it in some form of container. What if he cannot? He thumbs his mustache. He rubs the back of his neck. He cleans his glasses again.

There is a knock at the door.

Trevelyan turns, his glasses in hand, his mouth agape. The corners of his old mouth turn downwards. That is not what he had wanted to hear at all.

* * *

Rook gives Colette one last small shove out of the lift. They are headed for the car again. She isn't sure whether she is glad to be leaving. Every step takes her further away from her comfortable home, and life, and closer to the conclusion of this horrible situation, towards the unknown. So many questions are whizzing round her head, but whether she wants them answered or not she cannot decide.

They make their way out into the street and again the stench and sight of death assaults Colette's senses. Her mouth waters at the blood still running in the street, and she closes her eyes against the site. Grace sails elegantly and completely unconcerned to her door, Colette in contrast bumps into the car as Rook guides her towards her own seat. He assists her in, handcuffs still closed around her wrists, with surprising gentleness. She wonders if he senses the depth of her struggle, but decides that even if he does, he would be unlikely to be understanding about it.

Once they are all inside the vehicle, he leans over, still wary, to fasten her cuffs to the door handle once more.

"I'm fine, you don't need to," Colette insists as he undoes the lock on one of her wrists.

"I'm sure," he answers, "but still, let's not take the risk shall we?"

"Surely you can give her the benefit of the doubt, Dominic? She's been no trouble so far," Grace reasons with disinterest, from the front passenger seat. He sits up straight as if to ascertain if Grace is serious or not. He realises quickly, as does Colette, that Grace does not joke.

Slowly, clearly as wary of his neck as Colette is, he leans over towards Colette once more. This time he unfastens the handcuffs. The blood in his veins throbs inches away from her mouth. She ould drink from him with such ease. It takes all her willpower to maintain restraint, though her fangs extend. She smiles, and keeps her mouth closed over them, not wanting to find out what his reaction will be. She can still feel that cross of his burning her from the inside out.

Cuffs removed, Rook sits back in his seat and watches her. His hand near the 'weapon' in his pocket, expecting her to leap at him at any moment. He's not _that _stupid then.

The car pulls away and Grace, who has been checking something on her phone, deposits the Blackberry into her purse with a sigh, clicks the bag shut, and throws it onto the back seat between Colette and Rook. For a moment, the harlot pays it no attention, that is until she remembers what is inside it. Rooks heart beats loud in her ears. Her eyes snap down to the purse. The blood bag inside it teases her. She swallows hard and shuts her eyes, willing herself not to think about it.

Despite her efforts, before she knows it she has grabbed the purse. She wrenches it open. Her fangs are tearing into the bag, ripping a hole in the plastic. It slops coldy, slightly congealed, between her fingers. It should be old but it tastes... incredible. Fresh, alive, bitter and sweet. She gulps it down as quickly as she can, feeling it travel all the way down her throat like half melted peach ice-cream, until it mixes in her stomach, sparking a satisfied glow in her belly. When the last dregs are finished, she leans her head back and breathes deeply. The rush settles over her, leaving her a little dizzy. There is euphoria in her sigh. It sings with a note.

When she opens her eyes the first thing she sees is Rook. He looks at her with cold disapproval, and a faint tinge of worry. His hand inside his jacket pocket now, the muscles of his wrist are taught where he grips the protection in his pocket. Her next thought is horror. What Grace will make of her slip! Was there something important about what she had drunk, surely it was just Grace's lunch, but what if it wasn't. She looks to the vampire in the front seat expecting irritation or worse.

Grace is watching her closely but it is not rage that Colette sees. She is smiling.

"How did it taste?" Grace asks, a slight hint of amusement in her tone.

Colette becomes even more wary. This is not what she had been expecting. "It was," she chooses to answer simply but honestly, "wonderful."

"Good. I'm glad you enjoyed it. It's fitting."

"What do you mean?" Colette feels suddenly uncomfortable in her seat. She can feel her shirt cling to her back. She is sweating. The air-conditioned car is cool, she shouldn't feel so warm.

"You neglected to ask whose blood it was," Grace teases, "Though I imagine you didn't really care."

At Colette's confused look, she continues. "I take it from the photographs Dominic was sharing that you knew Belinda well?"

"Pourq..why?" The warmth in her back is rising, can feel her ears turning red. Colette unconsciously rubs at them.

"She had been sending me packets of it for years, at least one a week until a few months ago. I believe it was hers."

"H...hers? Belinda's? Not...not human?" Colette does not want to believe the implication. Grace nods. "I don't...Je ne comprends pas," Colette stumbles. But she does understand. She understands perfectly. She feels as though she has been punched in the gut. She grasps hold of the handle of the door as if the floor of the moving vehicle has fallen away as the revulsion and appreciation dawns on her. Has she really just drunk Belinda's blood? How? Why?

Grace turns back around to face the windscreen, while Rook openly watches Colette without shame. He seems to be studying her with interest. Is he concerned? She pulls at her collar, why is she so warm? She tries to open a window but can get little fresh air. The car feels very small. She can hear Rook's heart pumping so loudly in her ears, so heavily, it is as if her whole body is thumping along with it. Colette curls her legs up on the seat and holds tight as she feels the doors and seats and windows crowd in upon her. She looks at the window. She can still taste the blood on her tongue, her teeth, the roof of her mouth. Something is not right. It tastes... odd, like no blood she has drunk before_. Fitting_, she thinks, _that is so Belinda_. Her stomach rumbles in response.

Grace's phone rings in her bag. She holds her hand behind the seat and waves it. Rook takes a while to realise she want's something. Hurriedly he passes her the phone. She snaps it to her ear.

"All done, Trevelyan? We'll meet you at... Trevelyan...George, please, calm down. George! What do you mean? Speak slowly...who? What do you mean 'little one took it'? Why didn't you stop...Well get after her! What are you waiting for, nothing is impossible you old fool!"

Rook looks at Colette. Colette looks at Rook.

Whatever their opinion of each other it is clear that seeing Grace Williams worry is not what either of them want.

* * *

**A/N: Affection and love for the support and creativity of KatyNewt on this chapter. **


	41. Retrograde

**Chapter 41 - Retrograde**

"No, you're not," I tell her.

"I am. I feel like I'm wearing it like a coat I've zipped up and cann't take off. It's all that ice cream! I'm fat as a house."

"You look beautiful, every inch of you."

We're in my room. The hallway, the stairs, the landing, and the floor by my bed, are peppered with dried clothing. Alex stands naked before me, strangely uncomfortable in her skin, holding onto herself and hiding her body from me in the dawn as if, now that the morning has come, I will regret making love. I can't regret this. I don't care. I feel the need to savour this moment, as if I will never get the chance to see it, her, like this again. Perhaps I won't.

She realises that my mood is changing and climbs onto the bed, no longer so self-aware, and smacks me in the shoulder.

"What's that face for?"

"What face?"

"You know exactly what I mean, don't you get all secretive on me again. I can change my mind about this too you know, you're no in the clear yet."

"I wasn't making a face."

"You were totally making a face, a sort oh-dear-everything-is-going-te-go-tits-up-because- of-the-Apolcalypse-and-everything, face."

"Well…"

She smacks me in the shoulder again, and then is quiet. She settles back on her heals. The morning light glances off her shoulder. It catches in the peach-like, down of her skin. I reach out, thumbing it, and pull her onto my chest, where I hold her, enjoying the weight of her on top of me. We stay there a while. No words, just little moments of stolen humanity. Her smile. The muscle behind her knee flinching. The bead of sweat behind her ear. The eye of a storm. Somewhere else, the world is ending. Somewhere else, she is still dead. Somewhere else, I am a monster. In this world we are at peace, and she is perfect. Here, I can love her. Even if it is just for a day.

"I thought…" she begins.

"What?" I am distracted by the scent of her hair.

"I was thinking... maybe we could, I don't know, stay, or something."

I stop.

I pull back, "You're joking?" Of course the thought has crossed my mind, repeatedly, especially now I had so much more to loose. The last thing I need to unsettle my decision is her own hesitation.

"No, I…I just thought. It's nice, ye know, not being dead and…well, you not being a mass-murdering fuckwit…and, well…this…" she smiles, hopefully, up at me.

"You're _not_ joking."

"Would it be so bad?"

"It's not real, Alex." My argument is loose, but committed, I have gone around the same thoughts that she is having for weeks.

"Hey!" she pulls back, sitting up, depriving me of the feeling of her breasts pressed softly against me. "You weren't complaining before."

"Actually, I was."

"Okay, well during then, I wasnae hearing any complaints then!"

I reach for my shirt. "This is a trick, Alex. Temptation. That's all. It doesn't undermine how this feels, not for a second, but enjoying the deception doesn't make it less of what it is. Temptation, it's what He does, takes that thing you desire the most and teases you with it. First, humanity, now...Trust me I know a thing or two about how easily the Devil can seduce the senses. "

She stops me. "You have no idea, do you?"

"About what?"

"Death, do you know what it feels like to be _something, _after that. To touch, to eat, to be loved, to have sex…like oh-my-god, to have actual sex!"

"He's messing with your mind."

"Oh, he is, is he?! This is messing is it. Oh I'm sorry, Alex, the Devil made me do it. Do you know how that sounds?"

"Yes. But you know that's not what I mean, I wasn't talking about us. I'm talking about all of it. Do you think I _want_ to give _this _up? I've wanted you since the first moment you walked into the café. But accepting _this_, this dream, while allowing a whole world to die because I am selfish enough to think I deserve it...It would make me a worse monster than I was, or ever will be, in that world. Whatever happens to me, I don't care, it isn't right. I don't want to leave it, us, humanity behind but –"

She pauses, "Actually, I sort of think you do. I think you miss it."

"MISS it!"

"Yes, I think you actually miss being what you were. I think you were a crazy, schizoid, murderer, for so long, that you can't actually function with the idea of the real world. I think you find it boring."

"Boring!" Is she trying to make me angry, upset? She can't mean this surely. She's doing it on purpose, making a point.

"I think you want out of this place."

"I can't believe you're saying this."

"I think you're glad it's 'not real'," she air quotes. I hate it when people air quote, and she knows this too, which makes it worse.

"You're really saying these words, can you hear yourself?" I pull on a shirt and hop off the bed to search for some underwear. "How could you think –"

"I think you want the drama, the danger…I…fuck it." She throws herself back on the bed, slamming her head against the pillow and sighs with exasperation, "Just go!"

"I –"

"GO!"

I pull on my trousers, find some socks, my shoes, at the door I wait. I rest my head against the wood and sigh. I can't go without her. She must know this. I return to her and hold out my hand, but she refuses to take it. She has tears in her eyes. Alex, my Alex, my strong, indomitable, rageful Alex.

"Come on," I insist with care.

"I'm no coming. Piss off." She sniffs, wipes her nose on her arm.

"Alex, stop being stubborn, please, you can't mean what you're saying. I understand, really."

"I said, I'm not coming. Go save the world on your own, since it's so important to you."

I can't understand it, not long ago she was ready to take on the Universe and loose. She was noble. We spend the night together and now this? "Please, Alex." This was not like her. What had I done? I have given her something to stay for. I'm an idiot.

She rolls over, turning her back away from me. I hear something down stairs and turn. Whatever force had caused people to attack us the day before seemed to have subsided a while. Was it growing again? Why now? Because I was once again preparing myself to leave? For a while, I had been able to push those worries aside, focus on the present; on her. I sit beside her on the bed. Let them come.

"Is this because when we leave here I might be…back to my old self?"

"Not everything is about you," she huffs.

"That's it, isn't it? Now that we've…Christ, I can be such an idiot. I should never have done this. Not now, it was cruel, selfish. I'm sorry."

She turns suddenly, "Don't you _dare_!" she rages, "Don't you dare take it back. Don't you dare be sorry! Do you have any idea…" The tears are quiet and steady, but her anger is not. "I can't fucking leave you idiot. I just… I _can't_. I can't go back to what I was before, not even that, because I wasn't anything, not really. I was a memory, something missed. I was nothing. I didn't ask for _this_. I didn't make it happen. I didn't want to be... To be here, now, human, or what feels like human. Can't you understand how much I would rather be actual proper dead? But no I can't have that, no rest for the wicked, they say...but, shit, I would choose being any kind of monster over going back to _that. _If I could. Instead I have…I have a life now. I have family here, a father who missed me, brothers who love me, and real friends, Tom and now…Now I have you too. You think I have found this easy? I'm sacrificing a little bit of who I was every day to have all this! I can barely remember…shit I don't care. I am what I want to be: I am what you want. You think I wouldn't give more? Hell I'd give him two Universes, ten. He can have them all. Family, love, life, Sunday afternoon boxset marathons, new shoes, menial jobs in shitty towns, 99s, rain, bed hair and ice-cream weight, making love, a future where anything is possible…babes, this is worth thousands of worlds."

There is nothing I can say. Not to that. I reach out. I take her hand and I hold it.

Something, downstairs, breaks. We both hear the footsteps and move instinctively. I throw her my dressing gown. Slipping it on she gets up and pulls on her socks and shoes. Then she realises I am staring.

"You did it again," I say. They are coming now. Alex picks up a fire poker.

"What?" she asks.

"You sounded like -"

The door bursts open, and they come. Hungry, dead eyed. But they do nothing, they just stare. We could make it out the window. I've done it before and if we don't make it, we wake up. Don't we?

Alex leans closer to me, whispering, as if, should her voice raise too high they might lunge forward in a swarm. Right now they are just slowly moving forward, as we are slowly moving back. First there are five in the room, then there are ten, more follow. "What are they doing?" Alex asks.

"I don't -"

"**Where is it?"** they ask as one. Their voices dark, mechanical, legion.

We look at them all. Our chins flap open in surprise.

"**Where is it?"** they ask again.

I have no idea what they are talking about, but I am too shocked to form the words to tell them.

"**You took it,"** they say, **"You have it,"** they say, **"He wants it."**

It's a mantra. They repeat it, over and over again as the people, and words, fill my room. It is an invasion. Looking down, into the garden, there are more.

"**Where is it? You took it. You have it. He wants it," **they say inside.

"**Where is it? You took it. You have it. He wants it,"**they say outside.

Alex slips her hand in mine. "We should..."

I agree. I duck. She swings the fire poker over my head with all her passion and weight, shattering the glass, the wood, everything in one swoop. It clatters, shatters and deafens us both. We try not to hesitate, turning, shielding our eyes with our arms, we throw our elbows at the broken glass and attempt to climb out. I toss a towel over the window sill and try and help Alex climb, catching her eye as I lift.

"I've got you," I say, taking her hand. She smiles. I see it then, a spark. Something in her eye, something so persistent; something that can fight; something strong, that will never be overcome, not even by the Devil, or death itself. I have seen it before, but not in Alex.

Is it possible? "B…" I begin.

Suddenly I am hit, the crowd swarms upon us and we are overcome.

* * *

"I can't believe you were idiot enough to come here," Belinda says, "Seriously, Tom, you should have just got out of here. I can take care of myself."

Tom is agape, he shakes his head. "This ain't right like," he mutters.

"You're not Belinda?" Izzy asks with horror. She looks like her, talks like her, everything about her is so very Linny, how can she possibly claim to be Alex? It doesn't make sense.

"No, cupcake, I'm not. Well...I thought I was for a while, and I'll admit it's been, like, confusing at times. I look in the mirror and…" she turns to see herself reflected in the window, "shit, I miss my face." She runs her fingers through her long hair, pinches at her slender and pale cheeks. It is unclean, matted.

"Please, Belinda...enough with these lies," says her mother.

"It's not a lie! I know who I am! I know where I am! I know why I'm here." She hurries from the bed and throws her arms around Tom, holding him. At first Tom is not sure what to do, then he holds her back. "I thought I might never see you again," she says into his shoulder.

"It's alrigh'," Tom says. Unsure of his whole frame, he pats her gently on her back. The hospital t-shirt and trousers Belinda sports are tight-fighting but they hang from her frame. To Izzy's eyes, though she is horribly thin, the woman seems so like her old friend that she is certain that at best she is her, driven mad by whatever has happened to her and, at worst, a trick that the Devil is trying to pull. But she cannot be Alex, that just doesn't make any sense. Does it? "There, there," Tom says again, "It's alrigh'." He looks at Allison, over Belinda's shoulder, and mouths, 'she's mad, right?'. Allison shrugs.

Belinda pulls away, she stares at Allison with distrust. "Did they bring you here? You should have run the other way?" She sighs and before they have realised her change in mood, moves to attack Lady Highcastle with such a burst of energy it takes all of Tom's reflexes to hold her back.

"I don't understand," Tom says, struggling with Belinda's waif-like frame. His voice is quiet. He looks at Allison, helplessly, desperate for her to explain. "Allison...?"

Allison, with no hint of irony, smiles, "You'll be safe here, it's okay."

"Wh...I don't..." he stutters.

"Let me go!" Belinda insists, and stamps on his toe. It's Izzy who has worked out what she means, she turns, and grasps for the door handle, tugging it frantically. It's locked.

Izzy bangs on the door. "Hey! Hey! Open this up right now!"

"Do you think they're going to let you leave now? Nice one," says Belinda, rubbing her arm where she had twisted it, as Tom massages his toes.

No one comes. The nurses, passing by, don't even seem to hear or acknowledge her. She feels like a ghost again. _I can get out of this, can't I?_ she thinks. Unlike Tom, Alex, or Hal, she is here by choice. _The Devil can't keep me here, not really, can he? _She runs to the windows and tries them too. They do not open. Again no one below seems to even hear her banging on the thick glass. Tom grabs a chair and throws it at the window, but they are too thick to break. The chair bounces and crumples on the floor.

Belinda laughs, as she settles back down on the bed with a bounce, "Small mercies, at least Hal isn't with you. There's some hope then."

"Allison?" Tom repeats lightly, out of breath from his tussle with the chair.

"I knew we shouldn't have trusted them," Izzy adds. She sits next to Belinda.

"Allison?" Tom repeats. She keeps smiling at him, "You'll be safe here, it's okay. I'll be with you."

"But your exams and..."

"You're more important," Allison smiles.

"This isn't happening, you...you were going to help us."

"I am helping," Allison blinks. "It's not safe for you out there. You're not well."

"I..."

"This is nuts," says Izzy, "Seriously, Linny -"

"I told you, Belinda Weaver is dead," says Belinda, "she dusted herself in our front room. This...all of this, everything you see, or think you see. Everything I saw, or thought I saw, and felt, this face, these walls...it's a trick, a cruel bastard trick the Devil is playing to mess with our heads." She sighs, "Last thing I remember I was with my Dad. I turned around, he was gone, and the face in the mirror was this one. It's torture. It's Hell and I'm perfectly aware of that, and if you haven't worked that out then you really don't deserve to save the world, Izzy."

Izzy points, "There...see it is you. How do you know my name?"

Belinda rolls her eyes, "Because apart from the fact that I seem to have half her memories rattling around in here," she pokes at her cranium rudely, "as well as _mine_, you interrupted _Deal or no Deal_ to introduce yourself, 'Lady Isabella Fiston, but Izzy's fine', though goodness knows why you were stupid enough to wind up here with us. Did you think you would be able to help, he's the bloody Devil, sweetheart, not some two-penny pier entertainer."

Izzy wonders, did she introduce herself properly or not? It hardly mattered. Alex or Belinda, either way, she was right. She hadn't done a very good job in helping rescue them. Goodness knows what was happening in the real world.

"I just. We needed her." All those years working towards something, and it just seems pointless. She could have passed through purgatory, she could have left this all behind and gone into the light, but no she had to finish what they had started, she had to look after Hal, she had to make sure the Devil didn't go and screw everything up for the one thing that had mattered and now…

"Don't say it," Belinda warns, but Izzy doesn't listen.

"Why can't you be you! It's not fair!" she yells.

"Please, Izzy, stop."

Tom turns to Izzy, snapped out of his horror to learn that Allison is as dronelike as the rest of them, if not worse. "Everything …it'll be alright." He insists again, probably because he feels he should, but he doesn't sound as if he believes it any more.

"You have no idea, Tom! No idea!" Izzy doesn't stop. "One thing! We need one thing, to fix everything, and she bloody hides it and..."

"Izzy, you need to be quiet," Belinda insists.

"Why? It doesn't matter now, does it? It's all gone up in smoke. All those plans, all that work. Protecting Hal, finding the one thing that could stop Him, all that Linny went though, all _we_ went through, Purgatory, and werewolves, and leaving Colette, and the weeks of research and...We were one step ahead. Just one, small step, and now..." she grabs Belinda's hand, holding it. She looks into her eyes, searching for her old friend, "You have to know... it has to be in there. Please tell me you remember where it is. I can leave, they can't keep _me_ here. I can find it, for us, for everyone, I can find someone to use it. There's still time. Linny, please! Tell me where it is!"

Lady Highcastle and Allison stare at Izzy.

"**Where is it?"** Allison says.** "Where is it?"** repeats Lady Highcastle, their faces suddenly lifeless.

Tom grabs Allison around the shoulders and shakes her. "Allison, please? Allison?" he begs her to snap out of it. She doesn't answer. She doesn't even look at him. They both stare at Izzy, at Belinda, "**You took it. You have it. He wants it,"** they sing.

"What's wrong with her," Tom asks Belinda.

"I've no idea. They get like this. I had to deal with it for days until they realised I'm not who they thought I was. Smack her out of it," Belinda suggests.

"But you said..." Izzy suddenly realises Belinda let something slip, "Even if you don't think you'r her. You said you have you have her memories..."

"Shut up!" Belinda insists, glaring.

"**Where is it?"** Allison says.** "Where is it?"**

"Hit her!" Belinda insists.

"I…I can't hit a lady, like…" Tom stutters, "And it's Allison!"

"It's not Allison, Tom, she's a figment of your imagination, a dream." She shouts into the air, "I've told you, you Crusty! Old! Shit stained! Bastard! I don't know where it is, and I don't care who you send."

Tom flings his hand around Allison's cheek. Nothing happens.

"**Where is it? ****You took it. You have it. He wants it," **Allison repeats dumbly.

"Now you've done it," Belinda sighs at Izzy. "You know what they're after, they can smell it on you. They think I know."

Tom shakes his head, "This ain't right."

"I don't know any more than you about -"

"Tell her!" Tom insists, clearly panicked that the woman he loves has turned into some sort of brainless interrogator.

"Tell her what?"

The door behind them opens and everyone moves back in surprise as two figures are pushed inside. They land heavily on the laminate floor. Before any of them can move to escape, the door is once more locked behind them. Izzy rushes protectively towards the bodies, two people, curled up. It is Allison who holds Izzy back. Tom too moves towards his friends, but it is Lady Highcastle who stops him, hooking her arm around his neck and holding him down with abnormal strength. Izzy tries to fight herself free but none of her blows or movement leads to success. It is only Belinda who is able to go to them, but she takes a time to move, seemingly stunned solid by what she sees.

They had recognised them immediately; Hal, his lip is broken and his left eye turning purple; and Alex, beside him, sporting little but her boots, Hal's hideous dressing gown, and a broken nose. Hal groans and tries to sit up, he helps Alex, tenderly.

When Belinda does begin to move it is something else that holds her back. Between her, Hal and Alex, a slender black cane halts her course. She looks to her left. Hal and Alex look up too. Hal wipes his lip on his sleeve, Alex tries to stem the bleeding from her nose. Tom swears, and Izzy pales.

"Well now," says the Devil. "Isn't this cozy?"

* * *

**End of part 3.**


	42. Confessions of a Demon

**Part 4 - Armageddon Outta Here**

_How strange it is that man on earth should roam,_

_And lead a life of woe, but not forsake_

_His rugged path; nor dare he view alone_

_His future doom which is but to awake. (K_eats)

* * *

**Chapter 42 – Confessions of a Demon**

_Not that long ago_ i_n a City not too far away..._

Outside of Number 10 the press were grouped in a frothing mob, the police could no long hold them back, they pounded on the doors demanding answers. They thrummed on windows, pressing hot breath up against the reinforced glass to peer inside. This sanctuary was normally a dull haven for press, politicians, secret services, but today they were far from alone, far from dull. The gates either side of the famous street hung open on their hinges and the crowd extended all the way along Horses Guard Road, along Whitehall and beyond. It was as if all of the country had come, they spread through St James's park, along the Mall, past the towering statue of Trafalgar.

It was an angry crowd, a weeping crowd, a confused and lost crowd. Amongst them were the zealots, proclaiming the End of Days, brandishing their boards and placards above their heads. They decried the nature of man. They chastised anything they could blame, all people, all colours, all of history, every political party, decision and vice. Mothers and Fathers cradled howling children in their arms, shielding their ears from the chants and the swelling anxiety.

Strange things had been happening. First the insanity down in Wales, all those people killing themselves. Now the chaos, and the silence. The world had gone quiet. There was an initial flourish after the old man's unfinished speech and then, not long after, there were reports from abroad that people had begun to take their own lives, that strange messages had begun to filter through, through the mobile network, through the radio, the television, the internet, word of mouth:

Di-di-di-dit Dit, Di-dit Di-di-dit, Di-di-di-dit Dit Di-dah-dit Dit

01101000 01100101 00100000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 00001101 00001010

... . / .. ... / ... . .-. .

Il est ici, Él está aquí', وهو هنا, Είναι εδώ, 그는 여기에, Han er her, Siya ay dito, Hän on täällä, Mae'n yma, Он здесь

…He is here.

In the course of an afternoon, the world, as they knew it, ceased to be.

Then the satellites went dead. Then it was silent. No phones worked. The Radio was only static. The television fizzed. Server rooms whirred into inexistence. Systems failed. Governments went silent. Armies lost control. The end was no longer nigh, it was breathing in the ears of the world and telling them to be afraid.

It did not erupt at first, the panic, at first everyone waited. They had seen enough films to expect some announcement, this was aliens, or planetary collision, or terrorists, or something…but they all felt it, that sodden wet lump in their intestines that this was not an event Hollywood could prepare them for. The patience lasted thirty minutes. For thirty minutes people flipped through dead channels; they tried to call important people, emergency services, family; they hugged their loved ones; they assured them everything was fine, and convinced themselves it was; they checked the fuse boxes, their neighbours, then they mobilised.

Nothing came. No announcement. No reassuring message of calm. No government or religious presence. They were on their own.

It couldn't be what they thought it was, could it?

The crowd pounded, and swayed. They wept and swore and rioted and prayed.

At the front of the pack of journalists the crush was getting dangerous when something began to happen. The gloss black paint of the door began to bubble as if it was burning. It inflated and popped and pealed from the very heart of the door where the journalists were pounding. In horror, but with difficulty, they began to retract themselves from the door, as if it was infected. The ripple and wave passed back along the crowd. 'Something is happening', 'stand back' said the ripple. The brass of the black leonine knocker, melted, and dripped to the floor in a white hot pool. A semi-circle of space was made around the bubbling door. Underneath the black paint, which flaked and danced away on the wind, the door was bright red.

Then came the screams from inside. They all heard them, visceral and deep. The crowd covered their ears, but still the sounds came through. They swelled forwards, the people inside needed help.

Eventually, the door opened inward. The crowd went quiet, holding its breath.

No one came out, and so the crowd stood still.

Behind the journalists, by the wall a zealot began to rail, "And the great dragon was cast out, that old serpent, called the Devil, and Satan, which deceiveth the whole world: he was cast out into the earth, and his angels were cast out with him. Woe to the inhabiters of the earth and of the sea! For the devil is come down unto you, having great wrath, because he knoweth that he hath but a short time."

No one listened. Soon he was silent as, with caution, a few of the press ventured inside the famous house. It was bitter with the scent of death and blood. They all knew immediately that the men and women, whom they would look to for succour in such times, would be no help. The heads of government….

One of the journalists fainted.

…the heads of government, were just heads. Arranged on the conference table like slackjawed party favours. Torn from their necks.

In the corner there was a woman, the journalists recognised her immediately, and those that had not run screaming from the building began back away as she walked towards them. She was utterly naked except for the blood of the politicians.

"Hello there," she said, seductively.

"I – I – " said the nearest journalist, searching frantically in his bag for a paper and pen, or something with which to take photographs. No one would believe this! Belinda Weaver!

She lifted her finger to her lips, "Shhhh, you're just all going to get yourselves in a nasty little flap and then we can't be friends."

"You…you were dead. Disappeared at least. You…you did this?"

"I was dead. And He brought me back, sort of. Funny story really, I'll happily give you an exclusive. This is my last stop, thought it was only fair to clear out the rest of the rat houses first. We took a quick stroll to America, those European fuddy duddies, those silly Communists over in Asia. Saved the best for last though. Why don't you come over here, take a seat next to me and the PM, and I'll tell you all about it."

She sat down in the central chair, and tapped her fingers on the severed head beside her. With her other foot she pushed out the chair alongside.

The journalist turned to look towards the door. It slammed heavily. He could hear horrific noises from beyond, his distant colleagues clamouring, banging. The crowd swelling. But he was alone. He swallowed hard, turning back towards the naked woman.

"Sit, sit," she smiled, her eyes gleamed, they too glowed as red of the blood on her body. The journalist hurriedly slipped off his coat and held it out to her to hide her modesty. She laughed. "Sit!" she ordered darkly.

A chair behind him caught his legs, moving under her control. It drew him closer. He was shaking. She poured him a glass of water from the special bottles (labelled 'Number 10') on the desk. He fumbled for his pen and paper.

"I…"

"Spit it out man, what's your name?"

"Tom…Thomas," said the journalist in a stuttered Fife drawl.

She smiled widely, "I knew a Tom once. Nice name. So, Thomas, what would you like to know?"

"The government, you killed them?" He adjusted his glasses and shook the ink in his pen, trying to steady his hand to write.

She nodded, pulling her chair even closer to him. "Yes." She placed her hand on his knees.

"How…why?"

"How? Because what you see here is not human. In your terms I am a demon, an angel of what you call the Devil, He to whom you will cower and wilt and succumb. Blah blah blah."

"But you're Belinda Weaver..."

"I am _not_. I needed form to make His plans real. I found a nice warm little home in her flesh, I grew inside, became strong, used her body to get what He could not, then I made her take her life. She had the smallest remnant of a soul left by then, which He had let her keep so that when she died I could survive, but it was weak, an echo of the woman I had eaten away, so... Demon has no 'a', by the way, D-E-M…" she corrected his spelling.

"No 'a'…Sorry I... no 'a'..." he repeated in a flush, trying to write coherently, and failing. She was toying with him. He would be dead soon. "So, you're _not _her?" He didn't understand.

"And you wanted to know why?"

He looked up, trying not to stare at the bodies around them, trying not to vomit or scream or pass-out. He nodded.

"Humm…Why?" she sang, as if he had asked her what her favourite movie was, "I could say because it was what I was born to do. That I have no choice. That to create murder and mayhem and carnage is just an animal instinct, a blind robotic drive of a slave. But truthfully…" she pulled him close, smacking her bloody hands on his cheeks, "I like totes love it."

"You work for the D...the actual Devil?"

"I don't _work_ for Him. I am part of Him. I am a droplet of his magnificence. Darkness, made by him, long before you all existed and made up silly stories about what we are and why you should be afraid of us. You _should_ be afraid of us. But we are not like you, or even the monsters you can imagine. We don't have form, we do not die, we have not life, we are a force for chaos, entropy, decay, destruction. He was the first of us to take some form, some control, to toy and experiment with the meat of the world. But you, you tried to contain him...all that power." She seemed to snarl, squeezing and putting pressure on his head as if it were made of paper.

_This is it then,_ thought the journalist.

She continued to hiss, "He will **eat** you. He will devour you all. He will unleash the souls that he has corrupted upon you, and we will watch you consume each other, and dance in your left-overs until we can dance no more. Then we will revive you, and distort your flesh, and leave this place to rot. He will make this place his Kingdom, an example for the Universe, so that they might see what happens to those that toy with something greater than they can comprehend..."

The journalist could barely breathe. His whole body was tense. But he was not without life yet! In one sudden move he drove his pen forwards. It lodged in the woman's naked breast. In a yelp she screamed and let him go.

He stumbled backwards, the chair fell, and he fell over it. Standing again, clutching his pad to his chest like a weak shield. He ran to the door and rattled it firmly, banging upon the heavy wood. "Let me out! God, please! Let me out." He fell to his knees, pounding still, praying still to a God he had abandoned long ago as a boy.

He heard a pen clatter and turned, in horror to look back at the woman, the demon creature amongst all that carnage.

"There is no such thing as God, babes," she grinned, approaching. "Haven't you worked that out yet?"

"I…I don't believe you…you're lying..."

She shrugged. "Did you believe in your God this morning? Why such a sudden change of faith?"

She twirled his pen in her fingers. He watched the wound, which he had made, heal. There was no blood.

"Believe what you want," she continued, "It makes no difference. Even if such a thing did exist it wouldn't listen to the pathetic whimpering of something like you, any more than it did for these precious souls."

She was going to kill him now, that was what would happen. She lifted the journalist from his feet.

"Wait!" He did not sound as if he was begging, "A Plan! You said there was a plan. He needed your help. Let me help…I can…we can…"

"You think they didn't try that too, they turned their backs on their Gods, their morality, they begged to be of some use."

"If I can just go out there, speak to them, all of them, they just want to know what's happening. If it means they could survive they might...co-operate."

"Now, that wouldn't be any fun now would it?"

She took his pen, pushed him up against the door, and drove it into him where he had done the same to her. He began to bleed out immediately.

"You won't...win..." he sputtered as slowly he sank to the floor.

"Oh, babes," sighed the demon woman, "Of course we will. There's no such thing as a happy ending here."

The poor journalist paled, holding his notepad against the wound in a futile effort to staunch the bleeding. She sat beside him and pulled him close, holding his head against her breast.

"The Church will..."

She laughed, "Your silly religious people? You know they're half to blame? They dug up one of the few things we actually needed. It was buried thousands of years ago by some very smart, very old vampires that worked out its purpose and are long since dust. The church found it, thought it was holy and 'appropriated' it for themselves, they imbued it with some silly spells and hokum to keep the vamps away, spun some stories, made it a myth in their eyes. Over the decades I think you humans even came to think it was something holy!" she wiped a tear of amusement from her eyes, "Seriously you like can't make this shit up! It's like classic irony."

The journalist's eyes began to dull.

"Luckily," continued the demon, stroking his hair with her sticky hands, "We found it and..."

The journalist coughed.

"Now what did I do with the thing. I made her think it was going to stop him. She found it in the Cathedral. She sent the Old One to fetch it. She fetched it and...and...ungh…We found it in the Cathedral. I sent the Old One to fetch it. We fetched it and...and..." She tapped her head as if trying to remember where she put her keys, "I found it in the Cathedral. I sent Hettie to fetch it. She fetched it and...and..."

The journalist coughed up a handful of thickening blood like paste.

"It's not there! That bitch! She took it. She took the memory with her, that fucking...I'll...I'll...Fuck," her smiling face fell. "He's not going to like this."

The journalist began to laugh and then he was gone.

"Bollocks," said the Demon.


	43. The weight of living

**Chapter 43 - The weight of living**

"I really don't feel right," Colette says. She swallows, her mouth seems dry, and curls in on herself as much as the car seat will allow. She pulls up her legs to her chin and squeezes as if this will improve the nausea. In less than thirty minutes of driving she has begun to burn up, sweating to well past the point of demure perspiration. The sound of Rook's heart still beats in her ears. It is torturous now that she is sure she can _feel _the whoosh of his steadily pumping blood under her own skin.

"Roll down a window," Grace says, calmly as if bored by the Apocalypse.

Colette is convinced that the bloody and rotten air outside the sedan would hardly help matters. She can hardly comprehend Grace's detachment. Yet Colette cannot help but feel this smart and powerful vampire is acutely interested in whatever it is that has suddenly come over her. Shuffling in her seat she she cannot put her finger on why she feels this. Not counting Rook, who has not taken his eyes off her, she has that horrible feeling she is being watched.

She stares at Grace. There's something about how she is no longer looking out the window, not at her driver, nor at Rook in the rear-view mirror, nor anywhere in particular, as if into space in thought. Grace's head is tilted, ever so slightly, to the right. She is looking in the rear-view, of that Colette is blurrily certain. She is looking in the mirror towards the space that Colette's soulless figure might appear, if she were any longer blessed with a reflection that is. Yes! Colette realises, Grace is looking at _her_, but in the most detached way possible.

Grace could hardly be acting so clandestine due to some kind of camaradic concern. Even if such behaviour was unlikely in most vampires, it certainly didn't seem to be Grace's style.

Colette wonders if the other vampire be considered responsible for the sick sensation rippling over her flesh? The ache in her bones? It was the blood. She knows it. Had Grace _intended_ her to be so tempted?

Colette isn't stupid, she knows when she is being played. The sick sensation is innervated by the cold stone drop of realisation: _this _was why she had been brought along with Rook.

But why?

"I've never felt anything like this before," Colette leads, trying with slurred speech to lead Grace into revealing what could possibly be the purpose of making her ill. She had heard of vampires drinking the blood of their kin before, the rumours were that such a misadventure would result in instant regurgitation not such a fever. What was in Belinda's blood?

"No, I dare say you haven't, my dear. Stay calm, it'll all be over soon I'm sure."

"This is fascinating!" Rook interjects as if Colette is some form of culture. He looks as if he wants to poke her. And not in _that_ way.

"You seem sure," Colette accuses as she delivers Rook the best wilting glare she feels able to give. She watches her closely hungry for the confirmation of her suspicions. "I take it you expected this to happen?"

"Not exactly," Grace says.

Before Colette can launch into protest, an old man appears between her and Rook on the back seat. The ghost, seeing that Grace has company, judges with a glance both Rook and Colette and a snuffle of his moustache.

"Ma'am," he greets Grace.

"Trevelyan!" Grace turns to see her accomplice with a tight smile. "Nice of you to finally join us. What did you mean _she took it_? Do you have any idea how critical this is?"

"I mean just that, Ma'am. The little vampire was perfectly capable of lifting the item while her associate deflected any object I hurled at them. You failed to mention, Ma'am, that I would not be capable of handling the item," the buttoned up old man answers gruffly.

Rook looks at Grace with a confused frown, then back at Colette through the ghost that he cannot see.

He seems to have backed further against the car door. "Am I right in thinking a ghost has joined us?" he asks, pointing to the gap and attempting to wave his hand through Trevelyan.

"Will you tell the gentleman to cease that, Ma'am?" Trevelyan asks Grace who dismisses his question with a wave of her hand, concentrating instead on Trevelyan.

"Little vampire? Do you mean some sort of midget? Rook! Stop poking my assistant or you will find yourself ejected from the vehicle forthwith."

Rook immediately stops and Trevelyan continues, "She was a child, a girl, and clearly well informed regarding the item and its whereabouts. If you would enlighten me to some of your projects and past I might…"

"I've told you before."

"Yes, Ma'am."

He seems to be speaking in almost a whisper. Despite being next to her, Colette can barely hear him. She holds her nose and blows through her ears as if repressuring. They pop.

"This young girl vampire, did you catch a name? Was she particularly foul mouthed?"

"Certainly the latter, Ma'am," says Trevelyan with a wry adjustment of his spectacles.

Grace, for the first time since Colette had met her, suddenly seems to exhibit an actual emotion. The woman's breast bone heaves with a quiet rage underneath her perfectly kept shirt. "Damned creature!" she says without hesitation, and bangs on the dashboard. ""Where did they take it? Did you follow?"

Trevelyan answers but, despite Colette leaning nauseously forward to catch his answer, it is almost as if he is delivering his response and she is deep under water. The words are dull and distorted with no real shape to them.

"Damn it," says Grace as she searches for her phone. She flips it open and hits dial. Colette can hear the consistent 'beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep' that denotes lack of service. It drills right though her head like tinnitus. It aches in her nerves, and causes her toes to curl. Grace, taps at the keyboard in horror. If Colette thought the woman had exhibited some form of rage before, then this was different. Being cut off from her Empire was clearly something Grace had not anticipated. She snaps the phone off, the trill of the tone rings in Colette's ears.

"Trevelyan, where was it that old archivist Regus skulked off to?"

Trevelyan answers, this time Colette can't hear it at all.

"What? What did he say?" she asks. Grace pays her no attention.

"Well find him," says Grace. "Yes, now."

Colette squeezes her eyes shut and tries to pretend that none of this is happening. She hums to herself.

_Non! Rien de rien ..._

_Non! Je ne regrette rien ..._

She is still at home, waiting for her next client, her next meal, though oddly her appetite has diminished somewhat. The apocalypse never began, Izzy never invaded her gramophone, and she never walked the grey halls of Purgatory to find herself in drab Wales. If only all of that were true.

When she opens her eyes Trevelyan is gone. Rook is staring at her as if she is mad. Grace too, for the first time in a while, is looking directly at Colette too.

"How are you feeling, dear?" she asks, no care in her tone, more curiosity. "I really do recommend rolling down a window. I suspect car-cleaning services are going to be hard to come by for a short while."

Her head aches. The sound of Rook's blood is still painfully loud. She wants to shout at his heart to shut up, much good it would do.

"You did this to me," Colette groans.

"I did not make you drink it, dear. That was your own doing, and I did warn you against those urges."

"What is happening?"

Grace just smiles.

"What is happening?!" Colette demands, clutching her stomach as it bubbles.

"It's a blessing really, you should be proud."

"You…" "Her stomach cramps and lurches, and suddenly she feels the need to purge herself. She hurriedly rolls down the window and leans out, like some common drunkard after a heavy night out. She retches pitifully until her stomach is empty. Finally, she sits back in her seat heavily, her eyes closed. She tries to ignore everyone else in the car, as if anything might trigger a second bout.

"What have you done to me?" she asks again. She forms the words slowly in her mouth, between breaths, as if she has to negotiate each syllable around a mouthful of hot food. Her chest rises and falls with an urgency she hasn't felt in decades, longer perhaps. She feels starved of oxygen, which is stupid, considering she doesn't technically need it.

"Thank you! Well that explains it," Grace says, oddly out of context. It was not the reply Colette had expected at all. "Right, we'll head there then. Good to know I can still rely on you for something, Trevelyan."

_Trevelyan?_

Colette looks between her and Rook. There is no one there. She looks at the phone lying dead in Grace's hand. No voice from there either. Is he here?

She waves her arm in the space as if trying to swat an invisible fly.

"Colette! Stop poking my assistant or you will find yourself ejected from the vehicle forthwith."

The echo in her words actually hurts.

"Je ne comprends pas!" she exclaims. "Le fantôme était _juste _ici!" Is she going mad? Bright sunlight hits her eyelids through a hole in the heavy cloud cover, adding to the warmth on her already hot skin, but she cannot bear to move into the shade.

"I know, I know. Yes, I have encountered her before," Grace continues, chatting with her invisible assistant. "Once she has something in her mind there's no stopping her, and not many who will try. But this is non-negotiable, George. Yes, I know it is dangerous. Perhaps if you had been less slow." Clearly protests are inserted here. "Trevelyan! This has been in the works for a very long time and I am not going to let the silly games of a Old One having a temper tantrum get in the way. Go ahead, watch them and we will meet you there. And get what else you can from the Archivist!"

Grace sits back in her chair, plugs a post-code into the car's sat nav and directs the driver with a sigh.

"Don't worry. I'll think of something. It's what I do," Grace says with conviction, although she seems less than confident. She turns back to her seat. She pinches the bridge of her nose.

Rook seems less confident in this than before.

"He's gone?" Colette mutters, leaning her head back against the head-rest and closing her eyes.

"Actually he hasn't." Grace says levelly after a pause. "He's still there."

The harlot sighs irritably and opens her eyes again. "No. Non! He is not," she insists pointing at the space beside her.

Rook's large eyes widen. He shakes his head in wonder.

"What!" Colette spits, "il n'y a rien!"

Grace turns in her seat and smiles at her. "Trevelyan, do the honours, if you wouldn't mind?"

Grace's purse floats up in front of her face unsupported. Colette gasps and feels suddenly faint.

"Non... Comment... Comment est-ce possible? Pourquoi ne puis-je le voir?"

"How's your thirst?" Grace asks her.

Colette thinks about it, and finds that, surprisingly, she actually _has _to. It isn't there. There is nothing niggling away at her as it had for over one hundred and fifty years. There is peace.

"Do I need to spell it out?" asks Grace, with something as close to care as she can probably manage. "You really should consider yourself lucky, dear, it didn't kill you like the others. You must have a very strong constitution. If you can just last out a little longer - "

Colette clutches a hand to her chest suddenly. Holds it there as if underneath there is some kind of delicate thing, she finds a heart hammering away far faster than it should be. She looks at Rook's neck and finds she doesn't want it. She doesn't desire his blood at all!

"Je suis humain..." she breathes in with disbelief.

_This isn't fair! _How could Grace consider this a good thing? _C'est impossible!_ She had liked what she was, for the most part. She does not want or need anything to change, does she? Too late now. Is it?

The car stops.

"Here we are. And now the difficult part, Colette you can come with me," Grace opens the door, delivering her instructions in a clipped, unconcerned way that does little to hide her own anxiety, as the car stops and pulls up along the seafront.

The building alongside is a drab, grey slab, stuck in a nineties. A nightmare of dark stained wood and awful window dressings to camouflage it against the lifeless promenade.

_The Barry Grand,_ Colette reads in peeling paint above the door.

"Here?" snorts Rook, "You can not mean to go in there? Do you _know _what this place was?" Colette can read the fear in his face as well as anything. She sees him through new eyes now, as his equal. She is no longer a predator, and that scares and angers her in equal measure.

Grace takes up her handbag and straightens her skirt. "I know it very well," she sighs. "Come along, _F__reedom Is In Peril. Defend It With All Your Might_" she chirrups in a PSA sort of way.

Colette grabs for the car door handle, hurriedly. She could run away! She clambers outside, but finds her legs shake as she leans against the vehicle. She wobbles like a newborn deer on her heals, and feels more vulnerable than she has been in a very long time. She looks towards the bleak building. She could not stay in that car, not a second longer. She wants to go home. She wants to curl up in her sheets and grasp onto her life with all her might. She closes her hot eyes and counts. She wishes more than ever that in a moment she will wake up, and that this will be a terrible dream brought on by a late night blood binge on...what was his name again, Daniel? Any dream would surely be better than this hell. If only she could wake up!

* * *

**A/N: Props to KatyNewt - poor Colette is rather going through the mill.**


	44. When you dance with the devil

**Chapter 44 – When you dance with the devil, you wait for the song to stop**

_Just before now._

The ghostly journalist stumbles backwards away from the woman and his blood-bibbed corpse. He is clearly horrified by the reality of his own sudden death. His hand slips in a pool of blood on the cabinet table, sodden into the green felt. He lands in a chair. One of the heads rolls and lands heavily on the rug.

"I'm…I'm dead…?" he slurs.

"Astute, for a Hack, aren't you?" she winks. "Don't worry, one will be along any minute."

"One what?"

"A door, babes. Off you go on your merry, say Hi to Big Shiny for me. Tell them all what fun we're having down here, will you?"

"You…you said…" the journalist recalls the worry that passed over his murderess' face just before. "The Devil, right, your boss?" He says with some disbelief, at his own words, as if interviewing Tom Cruise about the aliens in his head. "You let him down didn't you?"

The woman stands so quickly that the ghost is taken aback. Her shoulders curl with a prowling menace as she sways towards him. He gets up and moves the chair between he and the attacker, as his dead body slumps uselessly in front of the door like some king of morbid draft excluder.

"You need to be careful," the woman threatens, her voice drops a decibel, her eyes gleaming red as they fixate on him, even her flesh seems to darken. A shadow pushes at the surface of her skin with a smile.

"What?" laughs the ghost, "I'm dead. You…you can't threaten me. You have, you've fucked up, somehow. Admit it. I want to hear it. I want to pass-over hearing that fear on your lips again." He is growing confident, and can tell from the reaction he is getting that he is right. "What did you do?" he asks with genuine curiosity.

"Oh, I can't threaten you? Do you have any idea what you are? You are just energy now, a spit of a soul bouncing around in the spaces between the molecules of the Universe. You are a field of atmospheric noise. You are **food**, to us. We suck you in and eat you up and it lasts for centuries and it burns. We drag every last spark of your soul you into nothingness, bit by bit by bit. It is Hell, babes, for you. For me…" she stretches with pleasure, "it's like totally Heaven."

The worry on the face of the journalist is plain. He picks up the chair and brandishes it.

"So if you think I can't threaten you? You are very much mistaken," she continue, pointing at the body behind her. "Killing that, is just cracking the nut to get to the meat."

He glances again at his body but is distracted by something that was not there before. There is another door. It is sea green, with peeling paint, an old bronze knocker, slightly unhinged. It is home. He stares at it with fixation. The woman, recognising his expression, does not need to turn.

"Tempting, isn't it, that little trick your brain is playing on you, that door that was not there before? Doesn't it look appealing?"

"How do you…"

Her voice is soft now. She backs towards the door like some kind of game-show minx, displaying a 'state-of-the-art teasmaid!', a 'shiny new boat!', 'your new garden furniture set'!

"You think it's benevolent?" she hums, "Something sooo good. Calling to you, teasing you."

He nods. Her tone darkens again as she slips her long fingers onto the handle, holding it closed. The door rattles on its hinges in dispute.

"It's a trick!" she snaps. "All of it. You are all too stupid and docile to realise that you are lambs! You roll yourself into the supermarket to be gobbled up! You are willing little cattle, bewitched by pretty lights and the misdirection of mythology that has been spoon-fed to you by the cattle that came before you. Mythology, I might add, that we spoon-fed to your ancestors before the first of you banged two rocks together."

"That's a lie!"

"Is it? Now what would it serve me to lie?" she sings. The door rattles with rage. He makes to move towards it. The glow that pours under the rim seems so blissful.

"You…" he can't fathom it. "You're lying."

"Do you believe in Heaven?" she asks. Something is happening to the door, the light underneath, through the window, is flickering out. The door is distorting, from the homely green to a bitter brown; from a bitter brown to the bubbling red he had seen before.

"I …I …I used to."

"Idiot," she spits.

"You all _had_ a Heaven. Big Shiny gave it to you. He gave you intellect and will and a world to play in. Here. This _was_ it. He made it for you, and you went and fucking spoiled it, **without** our help. No fair." She pouts in performance, waggling her other finger at him. The journalist backs away from the door, which no longer seems appealing. It is foreboding and terrifies him. He pushes himself behind chair after chair.

"There has to be something. If there's a Devil then…"

"It's not what you think. There is nothing waiting for you when your shells split open but us, Big Shiny included, open mouthed, waiting. You ruined this world, so we're going to take it from you, Him. Things will be different now. Call it a change of ownership, a Hostile takeover, we're going in a different direction…blah blah. You've been dancing around in the happiness of an organic farm, babes. It's battery life for you now." She winks.

He stumbles over spilled paper, after crushed cabinet box, after headless corpse. He finds the opposite wall. The woman, still with her hand on the door, raises her voice so that he cannot hide from her lies. Are they lies? Is she threatening him, making him fear the other side? He clamps his hands over his ears, but it as if everything she says is just as loud, bouncing around inside his head.

"You should totally stay here. This, here, is a carnival compared to what is really waiting for you. He's greedy, old Shiny, worse than any of us, worse than _my_ 'boss'," she laughs. "At least _my_ boss doesn't hide what he is. **He** doesn't play with his food, give it pretty presents and sweets before leading it into his stomach."

The journalist shakes his head, not taking his eyes off the door.

"Baaaaaaaa," the woman mewls like a sheep.

There is a knock, cutting her off.

She turns to look at the entrance to the Cabinet room, barred by the journalist's body. Nothing. There is another knock. She turns back to the corrupted door which she still holds closed.

The third knock is louder, clearly from behind the supernatural door. Cautiously, the demon lifts finger after finger and moves away. The handle turns on its own. The door moves inwards, into the dark, and out steps the man from the Emergency Broadcast.

The demon woman hesitates. She is unsure whether to fawn upon on the little man or run away. He steps forward, looks around the room. He is smaller than the journalist would have guessed but he needs no telling that the man they all wrote off in the press as a loon was someone so much more. The way the room changes, as the door closes behind him, tells him everything he needs to know.

The Devil looks at the journalist, cowering in the corner. "Oh," he says. "hello there." He is all teeth and crow's feet and evil.

The journalist can almost feel his none-existent flesh crawl.

The demon woman bounces on her heels when he looks at her. The beautiful face she has corrupted with all that blood twists with anxiety.

"So, are we quite done here?" the Devil asks.

She grins with unchecked nervous psychosis, nods enthusiastically and waits for his pride. It doesn't come.

"Had fun?" he asks her, flatly. He tips back one of the heads on the table like a pez-lid, absently reading the cabinet papers underneath like some kind of crime-scene investigator.

"Soo much, I can't thank you enough for this opportunity to…"

"Babylon?" the Devil asks as he replaces the head. The woman quietens her nervous babbling.

"Um-hm."

"Where is it?"

"Where is…"

"You were meant to come back with the vessel. I sent you out for it decades ago. You bounce around in form after form. I gave you the perfect opportunity in the boy, and let you have some fun with the vampire and yet…"

"I…I found it."

"Well that's what you said. So…where is it, my dear. I'm ready. I'm waiting. I've been patient long enough."

"Well you see, funny story."

"Is it now?" he sighs, rolling up his right sleeve. "Is it the one about the immigrant and the dog-shit parcel because I love that one."

"Erm," she shuffles on her feet as he comes closer, "No. It's…"

"How about the one about the politician and the duckhouse?" He unbuttons the cuff of his shirt, rolls that up too.

"No."

"Oh wait, I've got it." He is right beside her now. "It's the one about the demon that couldn't do its fucking job. Isn't it?"

With a forceful movement of his arm he plunges his fist into the breastbone of the woman. She coughs in horror looking down at the arm that protrudes from her chest. She grabs up and reaches for it, trying to pull herself free. Clearly this is not possible.

"Please!"

"They do say, 'If you want something done right, do it yourself.'"

"I had it, I promise! I remember, I…" she is going a strange colour. Her blood spattered flesh seems to crackle like pot glaze. The Devil twists and turns his fist, pulling her close. Her knees fold underneath her as she weakens. "I'm sorry. Please, she took it with her," she pleads.

"The vessel?" he asks, suddenly interested.

"No, the memory. The girl, Belinda, her soul wasn't gone. Not all. It went…" Her eyes begin to cloud from red to brown. Her body seems to distort through the pain. "…with them, the others, that you sent…Please, my Lord, I…I did everything you asked…I…I…"

The Devil pulls back his arm. A little black walnut of a heart clings to his palm like rotten road-kill and the demon falls to the floor. But now she seems different, nothing like Belinda Weaver, clothed, with a short whip of brown hair, chunky boots, a leather jacket. The strange vision does not last long, soon it begins to drift away like smoke. The Devil sighs, shakes his head and steps over it. He drops the little lump of black mess on the floor before him. It seems to try and crawl away, hungrily towards the ghost. It is part smoke, part meat, part alive, part chaos...Until he stamps on it with his foot and drives it into the carpet. "I don't know, you just can't get the staff these days, you know?" he says to the journalist who looks on in muted horror.

When the lump ceases to scream the Devil walks away, wiping the flat of his sole on the rug with distaste as he goes. He checks the sides for excremental left overs, lays his hand on the handle of the door again, and takes a fleeting glance at the journalist. Doffing his hat at the shivering ghost, "You have a nice day now, son." He winks. Opening the door, he is gone.

* * *

"Well now," says the Devil. "Isn't this cozy?"

"You!" I say through my broken lip. I try to stand, every morsel of me wants to rip into him but it is Belinda sitting next to him who I cannot avoid looking at. The vision of her punctures the rage. Is it really her!

Before the crowd attacked us, and brought us here, I had half convinced myself that Alex was somehow still possessed by Belinda, despite how impossible that could be. I had seen her die! She could not have survived, and yet here she was. Was she a dream too? What purpose would that serve the Devil. He notes my attention shift.

"Yes, it's a nice surprise, isn't it, Hal? Hello Miss Weaver." He turns to her on the bed beside him. "How are you? I've been looking for you everywhere you naughty thing, you've got something of mine."

Belinda is staring at Alex beside me. She shakes her head, looks at me, back at her, then acknowledges the Devil. The hesitation is only brief before she launches at him like a rabid animal. "You bastard!" she squeals and catches him around the jaw. "You fucking arsehole! You did _this_!"

Despite my disbelief, I try and stop her, "No! Belinda! Don't!"

Alex pulls me back. "Let her," she whispers. "Let her."

Would a drone attack him like that? Surely not.

Belinda lays only a few blows on the Devil before she tires out, none of them make a mark. "Are you quite finished, my dear? Only we have work to do." He says when she is done, in tears on the bed.

"After every thing you have done, to me, to...to her..." She points at Alex, "I wouldn't help you even if I could. You crusty old shitstain!"

"Now, now, there's no need to get personal. I gave your friends a lovely world, a really nice holiday. Wouldn't you agree boys, Miss Millar? Oh, hello, who are you?" he asks of Izzy.

"Isabella," coughs my old friend.

"Oh! You're that little ghost that was following us?"

"I...yes."

"Nice to meet you finally. You're the one that's been bouncing around in Purgatory, right, hiding in all those rooms to avoid my boys." He tuts. "Dear me, you really should have stayed where you were, dear. Possibly the safest place there is, Purgatory, deadly dull I know, but between the Apocalypse and the Hell waiting for you on the otherside..."

Izzy squeaks with surprise.

"Terribly sorry, did you think you had a better alternative? Well you get my drift. So, enough of the small talk, lovely as it is to catch up and all." He holds out his arm for Belinda, "Shall we?"

"I won't." Belinda backs away, shaking her head. "You can't."

"I will, Sweetheart. I can."

"You're not takin' er!" Tom cries, trying and failing to fight off a dead-eyed Lady Highcastle, "You ain't! Not without us. It'll be okay, he ain't takin' yer, we'll sort it all out. It'll be okay, we'll put it right like." He attempts to reassure Belinda with more care than I've ever heard him express for her. He tries not to look at Allison.

The Devil laughs, "Well, your part right, my boy. And I admire your tenacity, I really do. But I'm afraid I've no need for you or the ghost any more, terribly sorry but you'll stay here until I've disposed of you. Just needed you to keep this one," He nods in my general direction, "out of trouble for a bit. Hal, you'll be coming back with me."

I take hold of Alex, as if somehow holding on to her with stop him from separating us. "You need me?"

Alex maneuvers herself between the Devil and I. "You're no taking him. You're no taking anyone, mate!" she swears.

The Devil laughs, "You really don't have a say in it, I'm afraid. In case you missed the memo, darling: my world, my rules. I say who stays and who goes."

"So how come I'm here then!" Izzy spits sarcastically. He ignores her, thankfully.

"Why me?" I ask. Though still holding onto Alex, which has not escaped Belinda's attention, I push her into safety. I do not need her to get hurt more than she already has been. I take a handkerchief from my pocket and pass it to her so that she can stem the bleeding from her nose. I brush her cheek as I do so. The strangest idea passes through my old head.

If that really is Belinda, here, her soul...then...she couldn't have done it? Snow thought she was , but...then again, the other Prophecy came true didn't it? I rack my brains to try and recall what Regus told me about the First Dream. What did they call it? The Amalgamation, wasn't it? The Devil sees me struggling.

"Dear, dear, for someone of your age you really are very stupid. I recommend cross-word puzzles, they keep the old noggin sharp, mate." He taps on his big blonde head.

"Me?" I repeat.

"Yes, yes, you old fool, have done for a while now. Do you know how difficult it is to find one of your lot alive these days, especially one with such an outstanding oeuvre. Course I wouldn't have if you'd have let me get on with it. You could have gone on your merry, torn up a right old time among the ruins. You could've danced the macarena, drunk on as many dead humans as you wanted. It'd have been years till I needed you. You could've rounded up all the wolves, the humans, had your fun. You could've been king of the world, son. I made your lot for a reason you know? But, thanks to your intervention I've had to step up my plans a gear. We're in the end game old boy, the final furlong." He winks, "It really will be a smashing show. You're going to like it really. Well, the less soppy you will."

"I won't help you. Whatever you think. I tried to stop you before, all of me."

"I think you will, sunshine."

"I won't, not here, not there, not now, not ever..." I hesitate intentionally. Perhaps he senses that.

He settles on his large haunches, placing his cane between his knees, he stands.

"You've shown your hand," I say, "Old Man."

"I have, have I?"

"You need me. But I'm _not_ stupid, whatever you say, an Apocalypse isn't any good for...my kind," when did I start thinking of myself as one of them again. Did I ever stop? "You need me," I hesitate again, leading.

"I'm listening," says the Devil.

"And I need them."

"They stay here," he repeats.

"Clearly," I add.

"Hey!" Tom argues.

"No!" Alex adds. "Not without you!"

"They stay here," I attempt to ignore my friends, "Human, happy...and needless to say..."

"Alive?" The Devil finishes.

"Alive. If you keep to that," I bargain, knowing this creature is notorious for a deal, "Then you have my word, I'll help."

"Hal, don't do this, mate. You don't have to."

I turn to my friend, can't he see that this is for the best? "His world," I say, sadly, "His rules, remember. I'm going, whatever happens, like he said. If you come too you'll die , or worse..." I might kill them, there. This would save them, from that world, from me. They could be happy here.

"Your otherself is hardly trustworthy, Hal. How do I know you'll keep your word," the Devil presses.

I shrug, "Says the Devil. Your reputation isn't much better. How do I know you'll keep your word?"

"Fair point."

I hold out my hand, "Deal?"

"No Hal, please." Alex begs, "Don't do this. Don't leave me here, alone. Please." She looks over at Belinda, "It's her isn't it. You want to be with her?"

She must know that isn't it. I try not to look at her, it will divert me from my purpose too easily. It is so hard.

The Devil takes my hand and shakes it. "Deal."

_"¡Al diablo ahora mismo vendería mi alma si yo no fuese el diablo mismo!" _ I say.


End file.
